Redwall: Revolutions 1
by Redwall Survivor Contestants
Summary: The Abbess has been murdered, and six beasts are sent after the suspects. But who is the real killer? Worlds collide and both good and evil are revealed in this exciting survivor contest. Visit our website!
1. Prologue: The Solstice of Peace

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

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**Prologue: The Solstice of Peace**

_by Vitora (admin)_

It was with the weight of relief that the sun heaved itself over the horizon and smiled down on the thirteen tired faces gathered on the Abbey ramparts.

Abbess Dittany, for all her youth, had shadows of age darkening her face. But the squirrel's step was light as she crossed the invisible line separating the woodlanders behind her from the horde leaders in front of her. She reached to take Gurkin's paw.

"A part o' 'istory," the tattooed stoat said softly, as he clasped both paws over hers.

"Bring the treaty," Forerat Lazuleep snarled to his hulking wildcat attendant. She curtseyed, her whole body jangling with tiny bells, and disappeared with startling grace into the makeshift war-tent set up behind the warlords.

Lazuleep turned back to the Abbess, his lazy eye trying to settle on her. "All are not present. The treaty will be incomplete."

Dittany matched his gaze steadily. "Enough are here, an' th' others were in th' negotiations. They're part o' this, too."

The wildcat returned and handed Lazuleep a large, gold-trimmed swatch of parchment. "Mr. Colley sends his compliments," she said, her green eyes sweeping the company. She leaned closer to Lazuleep, keeping her voice at the perfect level so he would _believe_ it was private. "Don't forget your visions, sir. You were - quite insistent about the way this would end."

Lazuleep stiffened. "That will be all, Liya."

Leaning with wary nonchalance against the battlements, Skipper of Otters tilted his chin at the treaty. "That there piece o' fancipated guff? I ain't makin' no promises me otters won't break it if'n we find out yer 'ordes are where we don't want 'em."

"Skipper," Dittany said, still calm but with an edge of impatience, "you agreed. You know Mossflower needs this."

"Don't mean I 'ave t'like it." The otter gave Lazuleep an especially dark glare.

The rat matched it. "I have as much reason to gut you, Wether Rushtail, as you have to gut me." Skipper stiffened at his real name, and Lazuleep hid a smirk before throwing out his paws, lazy eye roving. "But as progress is our goal, so we cannot allow the Woods to see war."

"Ah've done meh numbers," the burly hedgehog to Dittany's left said, "an' meh grandson'll be old enough teh rip yer spine out when th' treateh's over."

The Abbess's bushy tail swept in front of him before he could continue. "Enough, Corsenette. You want this as bad as the rest o' us." She gathered her habit and stepped into the small circle the warlords had formed, hovering over the treaty. Her voice, crisp as the morning air, carried to the gathered creatures holding their breath below.

"One: there will be no more war in th' borders o' Mossflower between th' signing parties."

"Aye," the Lords of Mossflower said in unison. The warlords echoed with a less enthusiastic response.

"Two: th' territories are t' be split fairly, with an impartial from each side makin' th' rulin's."

"Aye!" This time, the enthusiasm came from the warlords.

"Three: kidnappin', plunderin', an' guerilla warfare are t' be banned."

"Nay!" barked the red-garbed shrew between Corsenette and Skipper, but at the angry looks, Log-a-Log Brome shuffled his footpaws and murmured, "Or not."

"Aye," came the response, slowly, from everybeast.

"And four," Dittany said, raising her voice and smiling now, "henceforth, this night will be known as the Solstice of Peace, and will be celebrated every season with a feast t' remember!"

"Aye!" came the roar of the hundreds of Abbeydwellers and hordebeasts gathered below.

Applause followed the cry, and amidst the cheers of their cohorts, the leaders of Mossflower stood in uneasy silence, wondering who was going to suffer from the peace first.

"If th' Prophet were 'ere, I wonder what she'd say." Jareth grunted as he put the far end of the stage beam to his shoulder, grimacing. "Damn. I'm gettin' old. Where's Maur when you need 'im?"

Skipper rubbed his forehead and scratched the bridge of his nose. "Shhh. Keep it down. Dittany ain't s'posed t' know we're doin' this."

"Y'wanna give us a paw, Da?" Melian, Skipper's half-grown daughter, came padding into sight, three quivers slung over her shoulder. "Or are ye just gonna keep sittin' on yer tail an' thinkin'? It don't become ye." She reached up and tugged on his ear. "Lighten up! We're in th' walls o' Redwall. No warlord is stupid enough t' attack t'night."

Skipper's brow was still furrowed. "Somethin's wrong, otters. Stay alert."


	2. All the World's a Stage

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

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**Chapter 1. All the World's a Stage..  
**

_by Cecil E. Sassafras  
_

Dark clouds drifted lazily across a black, star-filled sky. They hovered above like omnipresent deities watching the world below them move about its business. Floating in their midst, a single, white orb shone brightly, the shadowy billows doing nothing to obscure its vivid light.

It was midnight, the time when everybeast was supposed to be tucked away safely in his bed and traversing the mysterious realm of dreams. But tonight, sleep was literally an impossibility with the joyous rain of cheers and laughter resonating from within the sandstone walls of Redwall Abbey. From the tiniest of youngsters to the grayest of elders, both woodlanders and vermin mingled in tranquility, enjoying the festivities and celebrating the newfound peace between them.

Ripping through the air, a steady cadence filled the ears of all beasts nearby, getting faster and faster with every passing heartbeat.

Strumming the strings of his lute with skill and precision, Cecil Sassafras played an odd tune, one that was slow in some areas and quicker in others, and checked the turnout. A large mass of vermin and woodlanders, too many to count, were gathered around, clapping their paws to the rhythm.

The squirrel smirked and began to sing.

"This is the tale o' my lover,  
who was cruel and mean, and made me blue.  
This is the tale o' my lover,  
and how my heart beat for her so true."

Cecil glanced to his right. Standing a few tail-lengths away from him, his new show partner, Fjord Hollyhocks, was stealing the spotlight. Twirling, spinning, and juggling two flaming batons, the hare danced in time to the rhythm, not missing a beat or waggling an ear off-tempo.

The squirrel continued singing, playing his lute in a faster rhythm. A few of the wandering eyes drifted back towards him.

"Oh, how she wounded me time and again.  
I'd bring her some roses;  
she'd bring her boyfriends.

"Then there's that summer,  
down by the pond.  
I saw her there swimming,  
sleek like a swan.  
But when I approached her  
o' long live my woes,  
for instead of a kiss,  
she smashed in my nose.

"This is the tale o' my lover,  
who was cruel and mean, and made me blue.  
This is the tale o' my lover,  
and how my heart beat for her so true."

"And in autumn I thought:  
Ah! Now here's my chance!  
But a lady likes jewelry,  
and not my trained ants.

"Winter came swiftly,  
and I knew then, at last.  
This was the moment,  
she'd forget 'bout the past.  
And hold me in paws,  
so tender and warm.  
Instead of her claws...  
so like sticker thorns.

"This is the tale o' my lover,  
who was cruel and mean, and made me blue.  
This is the tale o' my lover,  
and how my heart beat for her so true."

"Snow began melting  
and melt became dew  
alas, my dear lover,  
'twas spring sprung anew.  
And no closer was I  
to my fair lady's heart.  
So when she came with a knife  
I made to depart!

"This was the tale o' my lover,  
who repeatedly smashed in my head.  
This was the tale o' my lover,  
if I wouldn't have left, I'd be dead."

Cecil, finished with his song, tipped his hat, and bowed low, taking in the heartfelt applause and laughter. When it died down and the audience slinked away to other entertainers, the bard slumped down to the earth, gasping as he regained his breath.

He turned to where his partner was extinguishing his batons. "Mighty fine show, must you agree?"

Fjord chuckled and sat down next to the squirrel. "Indeed I must, sah! But where the dash did you come up that song, eh?"

Cecil tapped his forehead. "All up here, my friend. I call it: _The Ballad of the Bumbling Buffoon Who Was Told He'd Never Win Anybeast's Heart._"

"Bit of a mouthful, that."

"_Alajake_ for short," the squirrel joked.

His hare companion laughed in response. "Quite right, then, Cec! From wot I hear, she was quite the... charming chappess."

"Speaking o' charming chappesses..." Cecil muttered, gazing into the mass of festival-goers. A pretty squirrelmaid strode into his vision, her bushy tail swaying back and forth like a lure, baiting him in. He winked at her. She giggled and shook her head.

Cecil frowned.

"Cec," Fjord warned.

"What, a squirrel isn't allowed to have his fun every now and again?" He winked at another passing squirrel who snorted and stormed away.

"Cecil Sassafras!"

"Relax, Firedancer," the squirrel assured. "I'm not going to try anything. It's a festival. I'm merely observing the _entertainment_. So long as I don't observe too closely or try to partake in it, she won't notice." Cecil glanced back through the crowd. "Speaking o' Vulpuz himself, there she is."

The dancer glanced up. "She's Vulpuz, all right, here to doom us poor chaps to Hellgates, wot!" Cecil glared at him, and Fjord shrugged. "I just think you have an 'interesting' taste in maidens is all."

The bard stood up and readjusted the buttons on his tunic. He bent over and retrieved his lute, slinging it over his shoulder. "In _my_ dictionary, the term 'interesting' does not exist."

"I rather think you need to revisit your choice of publishers, then, sah." He winked. "'Interesting' isn't always bad." The hare muttered something unintelligible under his breath.

"Yes, well," Cecil replied, "Fjord, tell me: Do you believe in love at first sight?"

"Hah! I love everybeast, Cec. I dare say that's my particular problem. But true love?" He pondered a moment, spinning one of his batons loosely in his right paw. "That, I think, grows on you - like mold on cream. Bit nasty, eh? Starts to infect the whole of you if you aren't rid of it quick as you like, wot! Still... leave it long enough and you'll have some fine cheese in due course. Have to suffer the smell awhile, though." The hare laughed.

The squirrel, completely oblivious to what his companion had said, nodded, his mouth twisted into an awkward smile. "Yes. Yep. Uh-huh. Sure, why not?"

"Are you even listening?"

Cecil shook his head.

"Oh, hop along, then, you cad." Fjord snorted. "And be quick about it. Looks like you just might have a bit of competition, eh?" The hare pointed to a young, smartly-dressed stoat holding the squirrelmaid's paw and introducing himself.

The bard's brow furrowed. He bit his lip and began stomping towards her. "I finally won her over, and I am _not_ losing her to a beast who isn't even her species! I've lost maids to weasels before. Not letting that happen again!"

"Just remember to be smooth, wot!" his companion called after him.

Cecil spun fashionably on his heel. "Come now, my friend, when am I not smooth?"

Fjord's face turned into a picture of horror. "Cec! Cec! Don't make _any_ sudden moves."

"What?" the squirrel exclaimed. "Why? I don't have something on me, do I? Do I?" He spun around, looking over his shoulder for anything that wasn't supposed to be there.

"Do squirrels have tails?" his friend demanded by way of reply."It's a great big... _thingummy_. Dozens, hundreds, thousands of legs by the look of it, wot! And... and _Fates_! It's crawling on your noggin as we speak!"

Cecil's face twisted in agony. In a fit of panic, the squirrel yelped and frantically raked his claws across the top of his head, knocking his hat to the ground as he tried to get at the hideous insect.

"Hmm... smooth as a hedgehog's back."

"Huh?" the squirrel rasped, his headfur in a complete mess. "So, there wasn't a bug?"

"Oh, no, there was a bug, all right. An evil little mite. Looked like he was going to spear your skull with that stinger of his, wot. If I hadn't said something, you might've been died and missed an opportunity with your lady fair." Cecil gulped. His companion gestured to his fallen hat. "Just be sure to check that hat of yours before you put it back on your head, sah. It could be hiding in there, for all you know, ready to strike you down and take you to Dark Forest."

Cecil shuddered.

"Now go," Fjord instructed, waving the squirrel away. "There could be more of the buggers about. One might even be on... her. You should make a thorough investigation, wot!" The dancer nodded. "Leave no fur unturned, sah!"

Tentatively grabbing up his cap, the squirrel scampered towards the maiden to save her from the deadly, non-existent insects. Fjord chuckled.

-.0.-

"Oh, Mr. Sassafras, you certainly are a charmer," Abbess Dittany commented as the squirrel, gripping her paw loosely, led her down Redwall's torch-lit corridors.

Cecil chuckled and twisted around on his heel. He met her pretty auburn eyes and grinned. "Well, my sweet, I certainly try." The squirrel bowed low chivalrously, the overly-large feather in his cap dipping down well below his eyes and blocking his vision. Dittany giggled.

Before turning the corner, the bard glanced around it cautiously, checking to see if anybeast was coming. Seeing nobeast, the squirrel quickly ushered the Abbess across the corridor intersection, running along by her side.

"Do we really need t' do this t'night?" Dittany asked, leaning her head on Cecil's shoulder as they paced down the hall. "There are plen'y of beasts outside, one's bound t' notice I'm missin'."

_Nervous, are we?_ Cecil turned and pecked her lightly on the cheek. "Do not fret, my love. There is plenty o' entertainment and food outside for the festival that will surely distract them. Nobeast shall know that a mere musician like me and a beauty, such as yourself, have disappeared for the evening to go someplace quieter."

Dittany stopped. "Cecil, I'm Abbess. I'm not allowed. We… really shouldn't be doin' this. It's just… it's just that I shouldn't be affiliatin' with you like this. If they ever find out, I'll be forced t' resign, and you're like as not t' be banished. Sure, we haven't gotten caught yet… but… if we do… It's risky, Cecil, and I don't want t' lose you."

Cecil chuckled. _Time to reel her in how Fjord told me._ "And where's the fun without a bit o' risk, eh?"

Without bothering to check if anybeast was coming, Cecil leaned forward and pressed his lips against hers.

She pulled away, cautiously glancing down the corridors. "Cecil, we can't. Not here, not now." She looked down at her footpaws. "But…"

_And to snap the trap_ "But?"

"But I want to."

Cecil's eyes enlarged to a frightening degree. Sure, Fjord had helped him woo the Abbess, but he certainly didn't think the firedancer's tips would work that well. The bard moved in and held her close. "Do not worry, my love. Nobeast shall ever know."

"Mr. Sassafras?"

"Hmm?"

Dittany closed her eyes and pulled him closer. "You smell nice."

"Thank you, I've been bathing quite a lot recently."

She shook her head. "No, you smell _nice_."

"Hmm, it must be the 'fur treatment' that nice rat sold to me. He informed me that its scent would enchant any fair maiden. Nice, reasonable chap. Called it _Eau de Toilette._ Sounds fancy, must you agree?"

The Abbess laughed. "Mr. Sassafras," she whispered, "I love you."

Cecil's eyes widened further. Then, he smiled.

_Fates bless you, Fjord._

-.0.-

Resting his head on an over-stuffed pillow, Cecil breathed out a sigh of exasperation, speaking in short, raspy puffs. "That was wonderful," he said. The squirrel next to him, breathing just as heavily, nodded, her fur standing up in odd places.

"Cecil, we really shouldn't be doin' this," she said. "It isn't right."

The bard rolled over and met her eyes. "But why? We haven't been caught yet, and Fjord… Fjord would be so disappointed. He's wanted us together ever since I mentioned the idea to him. He's the one who made this all possible."

"I could tell you some things about Mr. Hollyhocks, Cecil. For one, it scares me t' no end when you're talkin' t' him, because it makes me think you're goin' t' make th' same mistakes he's made. I'm scared he'll tempt you away from me with another maid," the Abbess said.

Cecil pulled her closer and kissed her lightly. "Fjord isn't like that, Dittany, I swear. Just tonight, he warned me not to get any ideas with all the beasts around." He wrapped his arms around her. "Besides, you're the only lass who's ever loved me. Why would I want to leave you? You're the only fair maiden that I shall ever love. I shall not stray or wander. I promise you this."

She sighed, tears beginning to spill down her cheeks. "I know, Cecil. I'm just scared is all."

"You don't have to be scared. Nobeast will ever find out about us."

"Yes, they will."

"Why?" Cecil asked. "Surely you haven't told anyone."

"Of course not!" Dittany assured. "But… I need t' tell you somethin'."

"What?" he inquired.

Dittany pulled closer to him and rested her head on his chest. She lifted her gaze and looked him in the eyes. "I'm… expectin'."

"Expecting who? There's not somebeast else is there?" Cecil exclaimed in fright.

"No, I mean… I'm _expectin'._"

"Expecting who?"

"A kit."

Cecil was quiet.

"_Your_ kit."

"W-w-what?" Cecil stuttered, his face a picture of pure shock. "Y-y-you're preg–"

A knocking on the frame of the door followed by the jiggling of the door handle interrupted the squirrel. A booming voice sounded from outside. "Mother Abbess, are ye in there? Why's the door locked?"

Both squirrels immediately rose up and turned to the door. "Skipper," they said in unison.

Dittany grasped her lover's shoulders, stopping him from doing anything rash, and whispered into his ear. "Mr. Sassafras, under th' bed. Now."

Cecil obeyed, hopping out from the under the blankets and quickly picking up his clothes from where they lay on the floor. He dove under the bed's base, praying to the Fates that he wasn't caught.

"One moment, Skipper," the Abbess called. Cecil couldn't help but watch as she rummaged through her wardrobe and produced a nightgown. She quickly threw it over her head and stuck her arms through the sleeves.

A click greeted Cecil's ears as she unlocked the door and slid it open. "Skipper," he heard her say.

"Mother Abbess. Why was yer door locked?"

"Forgive me, Skipper. I felt rather weary, and so I retired for th' evening. I didn't want anybeast t' disturb me."

Cecil looked around him from where he was positioned. One of his things wasn't with him. He had forgotten something. The squirrel spied his mistake. His lute sat resting in the room's corner, in plain sight of Skipper.

The bard gulped and struggled not to breathe.

"I'm sorry, Abbess Dittany, but this is rather urgent."

He heard her sigh. "What is it?"

"We received this from Salamandastron. I felt that we should deliver it t' ye 'fore we gave it t' its rightful owner."

Silence. Then, the rustle of paper. "Yes. Thank you, Skipper. I'll see t' its delivery immediately."

Cecil saw the otter's footpaws begin to move. Then, they stopped. "Mother Abbess, if I'm allowed t' ask: What's Mr. Sassafras' lute doin' in here?"

Cecil tried not to curse.

"He gave it t' me as a gift, Skipper."

"Well, jist be sure ye don't let 'im get any ideas. Even a newcomer like 'imself should know that'cher off limits. I've seen 'im watchin' ye. I c'n tell that look in 'is eyes anywhere. Just don't let 'im get any ideas."

"Of course, Skipper," she replied. "If you'll give me one moment t' get dressed in somethin' proper, I'll go deliver this letter."

"Aye. Thank ye." Skipper's footpaws turned and continued on their way without pause.

Dittany closed the door. "Cecil," she whispered.

Cecil crawled out from under the bed, gasping as he regained his breath. He saw a letter in her paw. "Th-that was close."

Retrieving her habit from where it lay on the floor, she chuckled. "I think I owe you a new lute."


	3. Shouts and Twists

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 2. Shouts and Twists  
**

_by Shelton  
_

"You still haven't told me why we're here. My mum'll be worried sick, say nothing of my sister. I've always trusted you, Shel, for some damned reason that I can't figure out, but this is too far."

Shelton reclined on his hammock, rocking lazily in the lamplight of the room he had signed at the Bark Snare Inn.

"We're here for adventure! You know how it is, rolling from place to place, seeking out-"

"Shelton, stop it," said Doon angrily, pulling his friend up by the collar with such force that the sleepy stoat tumbled awkwardly out of his hammock.

"Doon, mate, what'd you have to go and-?"

"Adventure, treasure, freedom - I know, I know that's what you're about. We've been friends a long time, and I always follow you from one haphazard scene to the next. This is different, Shel, and you know it. You never pick your destinations, you never plan ahead, but day in and day out it's been 'Redwall' 'We're going to Redwall!' 'The ladies await us in Redwall!' It's not like you, and I'm not a damned fool who won't notice."

"Just trust me!" said Shelton, exasperatedly struggling to pull free from his friend's grip. "I heard there's a game running here in the outskirts; maybe even a few game houses. Sure it's illegal in the Abbey-Court, but who's going to stop fun and call it a crime? The friars never leave the walls..."

"We had enough games in Sparkwood, Shel."

"This one will be bigger, you'll see. Higher stakes."

"We could've gone to Shonia for that."

"You know how much I hate Shonia," Shelton protested, waving a paw dismissively. "All the guards, and the rules..."

"And your parents?" Doon snickered; he had calmed down somewhat. "But all the same, what are you entering with?"

"I've still got nearly five thousand from when we played the Patrol station, remember? The looks on those hares' faces! Ah. And I can double that in an hour."

Doon sighed, and sat on his bed. He picked off his boot, holding it up accusingly in the lamplight.  
"Shelton, my boots are filled with holes, and you've been carrying five thousand all this time?"

"I couldn't risk losing it on a five-thousand minimum game," Shelton shrugged. "Besides, it was nearer six when we started. How'd you think we'd been eating last few days? Get some sleep, Doon. We'll scout the town in the morning and take it over by nightfall!"

"And I always listen, don't I," Doon grumbled, yawning.

"Because I'm always right," Shelton explained, and turned out the lamp. In the gentle evening light, he could see that his friend, exhausted from the travel, had already fallen asleep.

"I'm sorry, Doon. You're a hell of a gambler yourself; all those brains of yours, almost as good as my luck. But I've got to take this chance on my own," Shelton muttered quietly, feeling the two solitary thousand-notes in the emptiness of his wallet as he carried his boots out the door in silence.

Shelton left the Bark Snare Inn, pushing his way past two drunken voles sitting on the steps. He breathed in the night air deeply, plodding along one damp, moonlit street after another. The town was asleep, but only on the surface. Every Hotel, Inn and suitable den in the Abbey-Court was full of travelers; whispers of politics, war and peace abounded in the taverns. The dusk brooded with anticipation of the coming day, when finally the peace would be settled upon, or broken...

"And there's the wall," Shelton whistled to himself, placing his paws in his pockets.  
Redwall loomed over every building in the Abbey-Court, a single dark mass silhouetted against the darkening sky.  
"The Blade-Twister's, north edge of the court. Shadow of the Abbey, Muskrat Avenue. And, there you are..."

"An' there _you_ are," the voice of a stranger repeated mockingly.

Shelton froze in his tracks. "Followed me all the way, I'd suspect?"

"Near 'nough," snarled the stranger; Shelton, in the darkness only dimly illuminated by one or two lanterns, could barely make out that the speaker was a tall rat with a sharp knife, as were his three companions; a fourth stamped behind him, letting the stoat know he was surrounded. "Y'know why we're 'ere," said the leader rat. "Best 'ope ye've got it."

Shelton breathed deeply, his heartbeat quickening. "'Course I have," he laughed. "By which I mean, I've got it but, see, I was heading to the Blade-Twister's - great place I hear, maybe you've been there? - hoping I could win a bit more, save some for myself, you know? Silly of me, of course, thinking you'd wait until tomorrow like your boss'd agreed-"

"Give 't over," rasped the rat, stepping closer. "None o' them games."

"Well," said Shelton, glancing back and forth quickly as each of the rats took a step closer. "Well, it's all here, I'm happy to say." He reached a paw into his pocket, retrieving his wallet as the rats came even closer. "I'd be in trouble otherwise, eh?"  
As Shelton's paw emerged from his pocket, the solitary rat behind him grabbed for the wallet; Shelton spun around and grabbed the assailant, shoving him towards the others on the rat's own momentum.

"You curs'd li'l..." shouted the fallen rat as the others stumbled, picking himself up from the ground as Shelton turned heel, dashing headlong into an alleyway.

"Ne'er mind, let 'em go," hissed the leader. "We got what we need."  
He picked up the wallet, fumbling with its clasp. "Time t'- what, wait..."

The rat's snarl grew even more dangerous.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_"Doon? Where are you, Doon!"_

Shelton shrugged off the memory, taking a sip of water. One sundown earlier, everything had been fine; one sunrise before, he'd at least had everything under control. But now...  
"My business? I practically _am_ business. I represent the trade guild of Gurley. Ever been to Gurley? Port town, we get a few otters now and then."

"No, I never 'eard o' that place," said the burly gate-guard. "And, Sir Clavess, you jus' missed th' treaty," continued the otter. He sized up the seemingly-hurried figure before him, taking special note of the dusty, weathered state of the stoat's clothes, and the hastily-applied bandage tucked beneath his headfur.

Shelton put on a look of pressed calm, as if covering a justified annoyance. His head hurt, his thoughts were jumbled up. His squinted eyes threatened to betray last night's restlessness, and this situation demanded his wits more than ever…

"I told you, I was attacked by shrews. Shrews, on the roads, attacking travelers! I can't stand the beasts. They should've left the Highwatch to the clans, I always thought - otters are reliable sorts, the Long Patrol's stretched thin enough as it is! See, I'm a merchant, and a merchant's got to be a political beast. I may have missed the treaty, but what's important is the deals that happen afterwards, and that's why you've got to let me in!"

"In y' go, then. Best not be makin' any trouble," the guard replied with a grin, already writing 'Naash Clavess - Gurley' in his logbook.

"Promise, no trouble. Just money," Shelton assured him with a smile to match, pulling his coat back onto his shoulders as he stepped out of the guardhouse into the dwindling crowd of beasts outside the Abbey gates, still under heavy guard.

"Can't stand those self-important merchants," muttered the otter after Shelton had left, leaning his head back in his chair.

The open gates of Redwall seemed to fly past as Shelton stepped through, giving way to a bustle and fervor not seen in the Abbey walls for generations - Shelton affixed a smile firmly to his face as he dodged his way through the crowd, glancing back and forth.

"Gurley? _Gurley?_ Is that what's on my mind at a time like this?" Shelton snapped aloud at himself as he slowed his pace absent-mindedly, letting the crowds pass by him. "And Naash Clavess, sounds like I squeezed a book and those letters poured out. Ah well, not my best work, but effective... Where in the Gates am I going? Think, Shelton, concentrate..."  
He leaned against a wooden post and yawned, rubbing his eyes; the letter brushed against his face, still clutched involuntarily in his left paw... It was stuffed back into his pocket without another thought.  
He looked around and saw a dormouse in friar's habit plodding along. Shelton tapped his shoulder.

"Excuse me, Sir? Where might I find the Mother Abbess?"

"Doesn't work that way around here, stranger," laughed the wizened dormouse. "The young abbess comes and goes when and where she pleases! Though with all the celebration and feasting in the southeast quarter, you've a better chance of seeing her there. Spends quite a bit of time, she does. Though I'd head there anyway," he added, meaningfully tapping his plump midsection with a grin.

Shelton thanked him, wondering when he himself had eaten last; he pushed his way past a group of chattering squirrel-maids, following the sounds of music and song.


	4. An Isolated Pawn

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 3. An Isolated Pawn  
**

_by Daskin  
_

_"Nowadays, when you're not a grandmaster at 14, you can forget about it." –Anand_

###

Spring mornings in the north were cool, but no longer cold, and so Daskin began to spend them on the inn's open porch, curled in his favorite chair, a tall and shabbily-upholstered perch. His book lay open across the side of his folded legs, and he had buried himself in the text sufficiently that he failed to hear somebeast approaching.

"Daskin."

No answer from the young ferret, who turned a page.

"Daskin!"

"Wha—" The startled ferret kit rocked in his chair and nearly toppled it, fumbling his book. "Sorry, I didn't see you there, Hector."

The handsome fox smiled, a little sadly, and adjusted his feathered hat. "I've brought you a few letters," he said, and he brandished a bundle that he had concealed under his jacket. Daskin took them, his own smile at seeing a friend quickly subsumed by misgivings.

"No troupe, Hector?" Daskin asked absently, flicking a claw across the seal on the top letter of the pile, slashing through the emblem of a pine tree, marked in wax. "Whatever this is, must be important."

"They're just down the road a little way. We're—I expect you're about to read where we're headed, anyhow."

"Mmmm." Daskin skimmed the first letter. "And I'm going with you to Redwall Abbey. You're performing."

"So it goes. I'm sure you know more about it than us."

"Not much here." Daskin discarded the first letter and opened the second, slitting an identical seal. "Here it is. A celebration following a peace treaty." He scanned the few lines of text, and then took the third letter, a little roll of parchment—not paper, unlike the other two—tied with a green ribbon, and tucked it inside his tunic. "You have another letter, for Mama Kenzie? She ought to know what's going on."

Hector produced it from his jacket pocket with a flourish. Daskin plucked it from the fox's paw, and disappeared into the inn. Hector stood on the porch, polishing his claws, his bushy tail swishing lazily behind him. Shortly Daskin reappeared, unbalanced by a heavy wooden trunk at his side, the fur on top of his head rumpled and slightly damp. He had a forest-green traveling cloak hurriedly thrown about his shoulders, the hood hanging loose down his back.

"Going to read that last letter?" Hector asked, voice perfectly casual. Actor. He gestured to Daskin's chest, where the roll of parchment had been hidden.

"Nah. I know what's in it." Daskin had nowhere near as much practice, and his voice shook a bit as he spoke. The flashy fox performer may have been a friend, but now he interrupted Daskin's happy, if boring, life in the countryside.

At least Hector was generally good for a game or two.

###

Daskin and Hector shortly arrived at the troupe, where their brightly-painted cart had pulled off to the side of the dusty road—it served as temporary shelter while they were stopped, and so faint strains of conversation and music came mostly from the its rear. "Hector's Acting Troupe" was painted across the side in a screaming yellow, and as the pair approached, Daskin noticed a small squirrel touching up the lettering.

"Everybeast, everybeast stop and gather 'round!" Hector called. A wildcat poked her head out from the back of the cart and sniffed, glowering at Daskin. He'd seen her on stage before. And slowly the entire troupe came into view: two burly martens, a vacant-eyed stoat, the snobby cat, a pretty vixen who Hector helped down from the cart, and a young but fairly brawny otter. A few woodlanders were scattered around, and they generally looked worse for the wear; they were slaves, Daskin guessed, kept around to pull the cart.

"This is Silver; some of you have met him before. He'll be riding with us to Redwall, as a member of our troupe—and as far as anybeast else needs to know, he _is_ a member of our troupe." Hector looked around at everybeast. "You all know how to act, or at least how to keep your trap shut, so mind you do so. That's all. We'll be departing in about five minutes."

The troupe members went about their business, one or two casting curious glances at the ferret kit. Hector beckoned Daskin to the cart and hefted the ferret's trunk into the back. Then, he climbed in and began rooting through a large wooden box, muttering to himself all the while.

"No, too small, I think. Not this, or that. Hm. Good enough." He held his prize aloft—a gray flat cap with a peacock feather. "Here, this'll help you blend in." Hector passed Daskin the hat.

"Blend in as a bird, maybe. Mother would have a fit," Daskin grumbled, but he put the hat on nevertheless.

"There. Dashing." Hector winked. "Thera, dear, isn't he dashing?"

The pretty vixen, who was shifting boxes around in the front of the cart, grinned. "Debonair, I should say. You're dashing."

"Mmmm." Hector sounded pleased, and he turned to his wife.

Daskin decided he ought to wander around and properly meet the other troupe members… and quickly enough he bumped into the brawny young otter, coming around the edge of the cart.

"Is Hector around here?"

Daskin weighed his words. "Yes, but he might like to not be bothered for a moment?"

The otter merely looked confused.

"I've seen you before," Daskin continued. "What's your name?"

"I'm Juniper." The otter scratched behind one ear. "I'm an actor in the troupe. Used to be a slave, like them." He waved a paw at the well-worn woodlanders who were preparing to pull the cart onward. "What do you do? Dance? Juggle?"

"I'm not a—performer. I read. I play chess," Daskin said, looking past the otter.

Juniper thought for a moment, and then grinned. "I remember where you've seen me, you're—mmmf!" Daskin reached up, stretching toward the otter's muzzle to clamp it shut.

"Remember what Hector said?" Daskin snapped.

"Mmmmf."

Daskin sighed. "I'm supposing that's 'yes'?"

"Mmmmf." Juniper nodded.

"Well, from now on, pretend I'm a… oh, I don't know. An acrobat." Daskin released the otter, and took a few steps past him before stopping to call back over his shoulder. "My name's Silver, remember?"

###

The journey to Redwall Abbey was mostly a quiet one—a few days passed in boredom, the long stretches of walking and riding broken only by games of chess with Hector and the occasional hilarity of rehearsals.

"Who's there?" a gruff voice called down from the walltop.

"Hector's Acting Troupe, sir. We've come to perform at your festival, the Abbess specifically requested us!" Hector shouted up.

"So she did," Skipper replied. "Those beasts carryin' yer cart, who're they?"

Hector sighed. "Servants of ours, my good sir. They've completed their work. And can go freely." The fox cast a significant glance at the little cluster of woodlander slaves. "Whenever they please."

"I see." Skipper glared. "C'mon in, then. Ye've got a show t' prepare for."

###

Daskin found it easy to slip away from the troupe in their hurry to set up the stage; nobeast was particularly interested in him, as he wasn't actually an actor. Time to go exploring.

Daskin wandered through the Great Hall, where a few hundred beasts were milling about. He caught snatches of conversation as he walked—

"—won't last a season, 'fore some uppity otter—"

"—with the _Abbess_? Must be mistaken—"

"—sneezed on me!—"

—but that was nothing new. Most beasts would just ignore a kit wandering by, even a kit in a ridiculous hat. Careless. And that, he supposed, was why he had ended up here, instead of cuddled up with a book and a pot of tea at home. He could hide in plain sight, and clearly something was going to happen. Both because he'd been sent here, and simply because Daskin could feel it in the air.

The chatter of the countless conversations around him was not entirely in the mood of a festival; there was far too much tension, far too much subtle anger, far too much fear. It was an uneasy truce, then, as expected, and the forced peace engineered by Redwall and its Abbess already, perhaps, was strained. That only meant he'd need to hang around long enough to hear about whatever ended up breaking the tension, and then he could leave with Hector and the troupe.

Exploring the Hall, Daskin found an open spot at a buffet table and dodged in between a big otter and a hedgehog, neatly plucking some sort of finger sandwich from a tray. _Hmmm._ He turned it over in his paw. Red pepper and some sort of creamy cheese. He took a nibble, then gulped the whole thing. Come to think of it, he was rather hungry. As he reached for another, somebeast shoved him out of the way, sending him sprawling, his hat hitting the floor behind him.

"Ack!" Daskin scrambled on paws and knees, snatching the hat before somebeast in the crowd could step on it. He brushed it off, and set it back on his head. The feather bobbed defiantly.

Daskin laughed. _Wandering across the countryside with a bunch of common actors, under a false name, just to look around and wait for who-knows-what to happen._ And_ I get to crawl all over the floor to protect this terrible hat._ He laughed again, more bitterly, and could feel tears pricking the corners of his eyes.

_Can't cry. Have to stay alert—oh, you're going to make a fool of yourself, just like always, in front of all—_

He lost control, and scurried to a nearby doorway.


	5. Death Whispered a Lullaby

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 4. Death Whispered a Lullaby  
**

_by Dominic Wright  
_

Warm dust swirled around Dominic's footpaws as he pushed the tavern's front door open.

"Sorry I'm late!" he called out as he shook frosty dew off his paws. His voice creaked throatily. "I had trouble with breakfast." He hadn't noticed his nose dripping until the red specks began to fall on the white of Ella's fried egg. "Had to borrow an egg."

It felt so nice to be out of the early spring chill. He put his coat on the rack by the door and stretched. Ella rustled in her sling, sticking a wet paw out to push at his cheek as she enjoyed her own little stretch. Dominic grinned down at her. Adorable!

His face fell as he looked up to see that his coat was alone. He turned and stared at the empty tavern, dark brown eyes going wide.

The round tables were supposed to be filled with sleepy vermin trying to mix coffee in with their cider. The air should have smelled of stale egg burps. The comforting murmur of morning news should have subdued when he opened the door. Instead, the tables were as spotless as they'd been when he'd scrubbed them down the night before. The air was musty and dry, and not a sound could be heard but the smacking of Ella's little lips.

"The red plague!" he whispered, sinking to his knees. He held Ella's head tight against his chest. "No... no... the whole village? So soon? Could I have... what have I done? Ella-_what have I done_?"

There was a cough behind him, a chilling death-rattle. A survivor! He couldn't bear to look. He screwed his eyes shut tight, trembling.

"Did you remember to get the broom back from the bakers?"

Dominic stood up and whirled about.

"Mr. Walkin! You're alive! You're..." The weasel faltered. 'Healthy' did not describe the old stoat very well on the best of days. His shaggy fur was almost all gray and hung off his bones in bunches. The only thing left in his veins was ale.

"I'm?" Walkin raised his brow as he poured himself a drink behind the bar.

"Upright."

"Did you get the broom?"

"Er, I forgot, sir. I'll go get it now." Dominic reached for his coat. "Er, sir? Where is everybeast?"

"Redwall, I expect." The stoat spat on the counter. Dominic winced. "Some big hooky celebration. Nobeast gonna sit in this dump when they can get free drink there."

"Oh." Dominic didn't understand. Vermin, drink at Redwall? He wasn't a very political beast. He'd heard tavern rumors, of course, but it still sounded strange to him.

"All the better, I suppose. Gives me a bit of peace and quiet. Got an order in the back. Six barrels. Mortram's comin' by with his cart. Load it up when it gets here. Nevermind the broom. I'll get it myself later."

"I can do it, sir," Dominic said, chin quivering eagerly. "You ought to just relax. I'll sweep the floors and tidy up while there's still time."

"Me relax?" Walkin scoffed. "Look at yourself, Wright. You're a bloody wreck!" The stoat took another quaff. "Besides. You'll need your energy. It's a long way to Redwall."

"Redwall? Why'm I delivering there?"

Walkin stared hard. "Wright?"

"Yes, sir?"

"You're an idiot."

"Ibjibit," Ella scowled, punching his chin. Dominic tousled her ears.

Outside the tavern, the clackity-clack of cart wheels announced Mortram's arrival. Dominic put Ella down in in a chair and went to roll out the barrels from the backroom. Walkin chatted with Mortram as he prepared the invoice for the delivery.

Lifting the barrels into the cart was troublesome. Dominic's chest hurt less than it had during the night and yet with each barrel the pain increased. By the third one he was having trouble breathing, and took a rest in the shade of the tavern. He took a pawkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose a few times, then wiped the remaining snot off. His nose stung.

"What's this?"

Dominic sighed. He knew that sneering tone.

"What does it look like?" he snapped back.

The older weasel stepped out of the sunlight and came into view better. He aimed a lazy kick at Dominic's side. The younger weasel squirmed out of the way just in time.

"Don't give me lip, Dumby. Dumby _Dumb_inic."

"It's a delivery, Darron, you ninny! Leave me alone. I've got to load the rest of the barrels now."

"To my house?"

"To Redwall."

Darron slid smoothly in front of him, blocking access to the tavern's doorway. He cocked his head.

"What's Redwall need all that for?"

"I don't know. Some celebration. Let me past."

Darron moved. Dominic went through the tavern and rolled the next barrel out. He glanced at Ella as he passed through. She was standing on a chair, jiggling herself to a silent beat as she watched Walkin and Mortram. Dominic bit his lip. She looked about to fall.

"Ella... get down from there."

"Huhnn?" she said, looking toward him. Her eyes took a few seconds to fixate. She'd stopped bouncing, so he just smiled at her and rolled the barrel out.

Darron was still outside.

"A celebration," he said. "And they don't have enough alcohol for it?"

"I guess so."

"I'm coming," Darron announced.

"Great." Damnit. "You can help me pull this."

Darron climbed onto the cart. "Alright, pull me home and I'll get my whip."

"Ha, ha. There's no room up there and I've got two more barrels to load. Get down before you break one."

"Fine, I'll go on my own." Darron turned to skulk off.

"Wait." Dominic coughed into his sleeve. "There might be room for Faye on the cart."

Darron marched back over and punched Dominic across the jaw before the younger weasel could get his paws up to block it. He fell on his side and rolled over to kick out, but Darron had moved near his head.

"She's staying here," he spat, leaning over Dominic. Dominic wiped the flecks from his face with a grimace. He scrambled to his footpaws.

"Why? She deserves a vacation after what she's been through!"

"Aye, and she can vacation just as well out of my fur, at home."

"A celebration will do her good. She needs more time with others." With me. "With you, Darron."

"She's a nuisance."

"She's fire. You just need to care to tame her."

"She's a wench. She's bloody useless."

"Tchk! She's not a mirror, Darron. You describe yourself."

"Oh, shut up, _Dumb_inic." Dominic snorted at this. It was clear Darron was losing vocabulary.

He noticed that his nose was pouring blood. Was it from Darron's punch?

"If you don't bring her, I will."

"You stay away from my wife!"

"She's not your wife! You don't even love her."

"Oh, what would you know about that, then, little bastard? Huh? Dumb little bastard has his own dumb little-"

Dominic lurched forward and tackled Darron, bringing him to the ground. They fought and scrabbled in the road.

"Don't you speak of Ella that way!"

Suddenly Dominic found himself hovering, legs treading air. He fell limp.

"Put me _down_, Mortram! I'm going to gnaw his face!"

"I'll put ye down when I'm good an' ready, Dom," the big ferret rumbled. He nodded at Darron. "You. Git."

Darron fled, dust spraying out behind him. Mortram stomped back inside the tavern before letting Dominic's paws reach the floor.

"Trying to get yourself killed before some imaginary plague can do you in?" Walkin said. "I need your mind on the job, Wright. Not pickin' fights every time your brother opens his stupid gob. You're drippin' blood everywhere."

"Half brother," Dominic snarled. He dabbed at his nose with his pawkerchief. "My dad'd tan his dad's hide! He doesn't deserve Faye, besides."

"Barrels, Wright."

"Sorry, sir. Ella, don't lick the window, it's not food."

The little weaselmaid crinkled her eyes at her transparent reflection. "My nose, my I got my rum nose."

-

His lungs burned with death and dust. Death from within, dust from the road. He couldn't decide which was more favorable.

Ella bounced around on the cart behind him. He would stop every ten minutes for a two minute rest and let her down to tumble about off the roadway. Veil Village wasn't half a day's walk from Redwall, but at this rate it would take him until evening.

Six barrels. Why couldn't Mortram have been hired as well as his cart? All of Dominic's muscles ached, even his tail.

He couldn't deny the change of scenery was nice. He had rarely been out of the village, and never inside Redwall. The farmlands gave the world an open feeling. He found he did not miss the dirty, crooked streets. Every time he got dizzy with fatigue he would worry he might fall away toward the horizon.

Furthermore, he had never seen the main road so empty. Usually he could see at least one group of travelers in the distance, or merchants on their way between villages. Today it was just him and Ella.

He tripped on his own footpaws and called a rest two minutes early by his count. Ella climbed off the cart, using him as a ladder. Rubbing the throbbing paw, the weasel unharnessed himself and sat in the shade. She swayed over to a puddle to make ripples. From this angle, Dominic noticed she was starting to get fat around the middle.

Two years wasn't bad, he told himself. Two years without a proper mother to feed her. Two years bumming favors from every pregnant or nursing jill stupid enough to be found in a tavern. She was healthy, and growing more every day. Someday soon she would be able to live on her own.

For some reason, that scared the hell out of him.

He woke up to find she had put an earthworm in his open mouth. The sun and shadows had moved. And there was a lizard smirking at him, leaning against a hooded gypsy wagon with her arms folded.

Dominic spat out the worm and scolded Ella gently. She ignored him and picked up the worm to grind in her muddy paws.

"Your zizter?" the lizard said, nodding.

"My daughter," Dominic said. He averted his gaze from her expression.

"I zee..."

"Her name's Ella. I'm Dominic Wright."

The lizard's tongue flicked out.

"Vikraja Left."

"Tchk! You're not serious."

"Of courze not. Juzt Vikraja."

Dominic stood up and steadied himself against a barrel.

"Thanks for stopping to watch over her," he said. "I didn't mean to fall asleep."

"I thought you were dead. That'z a nazty bruize."

Dominic touched a paw to his cheek. It was swollen a little from Darron's punch.

"You weren't going to eat me if I was, were you?"

"Ewh." Affronted, the lizard stuck her nose up. "What do you think I am? You're covered in dirt. And likely dizeazed."

"Oh." It was visible now, was it? Time was shorter than he'd thought. "I didn't mean to imply anything," he said hurriedly. "I'm sorry. Look, what are you selling? Can I make it up to you?"

There were all manner of strange smells coming from Vikraja's wagon. They looked like they were heading in the same direction. Dominic didn't want to pass this up. Too many times he'd tried to buy nice things at markets, only to find they'd been sold out before he got there. He pulled his rucksack out of the cart and found his pouch of coins. He took a quick gulp from his flask while he was at it. The water burned his throat.

"I've got a few silvers... mostly bronze and coppers. Haven't managed to save up much lately."

Suddenly the lizard was all teeth and smiles. Dominic gulped and took a step back. They looked a lot sharper than the teeth he was used to seeing. She gestured him around to the back of the wagon. His eyes roved over the shiny trinkets and mystical knickknacks.

"Ella, come here." She toddled over and he lifted her up to look. "See anything you like?"

He felt the front of his tunic become damp, and frowned as Ella ogled the wares. Vikraja's face, impossible though it should have been to decipher, shared his sentiments. The lizard's tongue stopped flicking in and out. Ella's diaper drooped, and something warm was trickling down his arm. He quickly put her back down.

"Might I zuggezt a perfume? Thiz one in particular, iz from a foreign land, far acrozz the zea."

One puff was enough to convince Dominic. The scent was perfect to mask Ella's smell. It would also be a great gift for Faye.

"I'll take two," he said.

"One zilver for both."

He pursed his lips. He only had four silvers. But the crystaline bottles had gold gilted nozzles and the scent was to die for.

"How about that scarf there?" he said as he passed Vikraja the coin. "The purple one?"

"Tierian zilk, the mozt preciouz of dyes! From the hillzide town of Tiers, in Zouthzward-"

"How much?"

"Two zilver."

He blanched. "What about that yellow one?"

"Thiz... Three bronze."

"Sold."

"Let me juzt package the perfumez, and you can have thiz now."

Dominic took the scarf and Ella and laid them both down on the lowered gates of his own cart. Thankfully, Ella had only wet herself.

"You're going to tell daddy if you have to go, right?" he said, tickling her chin. She smiled coyly and nodded, lifting her dress up to help. He untied the string around her linen diaper and shook it out with an outstretched arm.

"Excuze me!" Vikraja said, grabbing his wrist. He was just about to pick up the yellow scarf from where he'd laid it. "What are you doing? No! No, you dizguzting ferret."

"I'm a weasel."

"Weazel! Whatever. I will _not_ let you uze that." She snatched the scarf back and hugged it.

"Well, what am I going to use?" There hadn't been time to pack much more than a quick lunch. "I need something!"

Vikraja glowered. "Give me a minute."

The lizard vanished around the side of her wagon. Dominic sat on the gate and put a paw on Ella's stomach to keep her from rolling.

"Way to ruin the day. You're supposed to take it off before you go, I told you that."

"Soggy, poppy."

"Apologizing is no good now."

"Here!" Vikraja called, appearing again with a long, broad leaf. "Juzt the thing. One-time uze, yez, but the oilz on the leaf do wonderz for rashez..."

"It's not worth three bronze, is it?" Dominic said. He narrowed his eyes.

"Er... It _iz_ very rare..."

Dominic regarded the leaf in his paws. It was bendy, nowhere near as thick as proper linen, but it would keep things in one place until he could deal with them later. That was the requirement. He measured it and poked a claw through for Ella's tail.

"One bronze." Vikraja suggested. Dominic looked sharply at her. Was she serious?

"How about one copper? It's just a leaf."

"Nine."

"Two."

They bartered down to five.

"I would have preferred you eat me," he grumbled, doling out the copper coins. She passed his bronze ones back.

"I don't eat dirty dizeazelz."

"Are you heading to Redwall?" He turned back to the task of tying Ella's new diaper.

"Az a matter of fact, I am."

"How heavy is your wagon?" He hadn't seen anything very heavy inside, apart from a few fancy weapons and a box or two draped in cloth.

Vikraja's eyes darted to the cart full of barrels.

"Heavy." Liar. Dominic rolled his eyes.

"See you there."

"Zure."

Dominic put the gate back up and scrubbed the worm guts off Ella's paws with the hem of his tunic. He harnessed himself up to the cart and headed off again. Vikraja's wagon bounced side-to-side up ahead, growing smaller by the minute.

Behind them, unnoticed by Dominic, was a mullein plant. Yellow flowers waved in the wind. One of its leaves had been torn off.

-

Redwall City loomed on the horizon, the Abbey itself standing proud behind the buildings. Dominic was reminded of a mother standing over her brood. As he got closer, the buildings moved out of sight one by one, until just the Abbey was left standing before him. Its sandstone walls looked faded and worn up close. Lackluster. Beaten by weather and countless decades of warfare. Mossflower had not been kind to Redwall.

The mother in his imagination became Faye.

"Nearly there," he said. Ella had fallen asleep. He had moved her into the sling across his chest so the cart's bumping wouldn't awaken her.

He checked in with the Long Patrol hares at the gate. One of them ran off to fetch the Abbey's cellarhog. Dominic waited until they returned, and offered the invoice for signing.

"Six barrels of Walkin's finest," the hedgehog said happily. "Still, we'll be lucky to 'ave a drop of water when celebrations die down. We might 'ave to order more!"

"Don't even joke about that," Dominic groaned. He coughed again, his chest burning with pain.

"You okay, lad?" The hedgehog crumpled his receipt away into a pocket. He reached a paw out to steady Dominic. "Look like you're about to tip right over. Why don't you come in, rest in the abbey?"

"Huh? But... I'm..."

"Weasel, 'edge'og, doesn't matter. All are welcome 'ere. We'll get you fixed right up. Poultice for that bruise, lozenge for the throat, and you'll be dancing your strange weasel dance in no time. Cute liddle one you've got there."

"Her name's Ella."

"A nice, sensible name. Would've guessed Mugnose or Rotscab, myself." The cellarhog scrunched up his nose. "But that's what they call 'poly-tickly uncorrect' these days."

"My name's Dominic."

"See, what do I know about you weasels? Apologies, friend. I'm an old curmudgeon. This world's too new for my old ways. Still got 'alf a mind to lay you out right 'ere."

"Ha, ha."

"Well, 'ere we are, the famous Redwall infirmary. Sister Summers, got a patient for you! You take care now, Mr. Dominic, and we'll raise you a toast for the ale."

Dazed, Dominic staggered over to a bed and sat down. He unhitched Ella's sling and lay her behind him. She didn't stir. The bed was without a doubt the most comfortable thing Dominic had ever put his hindquarters on. He decided to ask somebeast if he could buy the mattress and take it back to Veil Village with him.

The infirmary sister was a fat old mouse. She began poking at his face and pulling his lips and whiskers without so much as a "how do you do."

"Any recent symptoms?"

"No," Dominic lied. His shoulders were sore from the tension in his stomach. He would die on his own terms, thank you very much Sister Summers! He didn't need any woodlanders deciding he was too hopeless a case. They'd put him away in a barrel to keep the infection from spreading and he'd never get to say goodbye to Ella. Or to Faye.

"Signs of recent nosebleeds. White coating on the tongue." She grabbed his cheek and pulled, then felt his head and ears. "Reddened eyes. Not much of a fever. Cough for me."

Dominic coughed.

The mouse stared hard at him. "You have a cold."

"No, I don't." Stop trying to cheer me up. "I'm fine!"

"You stay in this bed, Mr. Dominic, and I'll fetch you something to help. I'm afraid there will be no celebration for you tonight, maybe even a few days. We can't risk you spreading your cold with so many beasts around."

Dominic lay back in the bed and groaned. Sister Summers rummaged through her shelves and offered him something that smelled like tar and raspberries mixed. He downed it on one gulp. She smiled at him.

"There's a real trooper! I'll leave you be to get some rest. Oh, and isn't your little sister adorable! Just ring for me if you need anything, I'll be right across the hall."

She shut the door. Dominic sat up and looked up and down the aisle. There was an otter asleep across from him, and a ferret by the windows curled up in an armchair, both sound asleep. Dominic cringed. Whatever was killing him was bad enough! He didn't want to pick anything else up from these two. He swung his legs over the bed and stood up.

He took a step and crashed into the nightstand. His vision swam. His paws were numb. Poison! That ruddy mouse had poisoned him!

"Ella! Ell... ah..."

When he awoke, the room was in darkness. He was tucked in, his tunic draped over the end rail of the bed. The windows at the far side of the room flashed with lights. Laughter seeped in from the grounds. He was still alive!

Ella was gone.

He dressed and ran out into the hallway, calling for her. Two otters strolling down the hallway turned and looked at each other, then nodded and headed towards him. He turned and ran the other way, nearly running into a squirrelmaid in a green habit.

"Oh, so sorry!" she squeaked. "Let me help you up."

"I'm looking for-"

"What's all this commotion?" Sister Summers popped her head out of her room. "Mr. Dominic! I told you to stay in bed. Forgive me, Mother, he's got a cold and you know, with the celebration and all..."

"No need t' apologize, Sister Summers. You two, come bring-Dominic, was it? Bring him back t' th' infirmary."

"But I'm-" Dominic's breath was squeezed out of him as one of the otters hooked their arm around his chest.

"Poor dear's probably still bamboozled from my special medicine," Summers chuckled. Dominic's wild eyes focused on the squirrel as she laughed along with the mouse. There was something dreadfully wrong about the proportions. The teeth were too big, the laugh was too loud, the hallway too small. As he watched, her head grew and shrunk in size. He tried to scream in horror, but couldn't.

Gasping like a fish, Dominic found himself hauled back into his bed. The otters left and closed the door behind them before he could get wind again. He pawed at the knob. Locked? What kind of infirmary could be locked from the outside? He hammered his paws against the door, shouting hoarsely.

"Ella! Let me out of here! I need to find Ella! I'll kill you for this! Let me see my daughter! You stupid beasts, she's only two! She needs me! Do you hear me? I'll break your necks if anything happens to her! I'm not sick! I'm _not_ sick! I'll hammer your skulls! Let me out or I'll gnaw you! **ELLAAAAAA**!"

Whirling away from the useless door, he quickly took stock of the rest of the room. The windows! The latches opened with ease. Music and chatter filled the room. He was two stories up.

He gave himself a minute or two to calm down, until the room stopped spinning. Then he started tying together bedsheets. He grabbed Ella's sling from the nightstand. He was relieved to find his money still there.

Perched at the windowsill, he stopped to breathe before he began his descent. Somehow, the pain in his chest was subdued. Had the mouse's poison done something to him? Perhaps... helped him?

Not that it mattered. If he lost Ella, he might as well die after all.

He climbed down to the grounds below.


	6. Hate Me and I'll Love You

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 5. Hate Me and I'll Love You  
**

_by Faye  
_

_The door creaked when it swung open. Faye glanced up from the floor where she was twisting a piece of wire around a poppy. Darron stood in the doorway, covered in grime, his broad shoulders sagging from fatigue._

Faye looked back down at her flower.

"You're home early."

Darron pulled his hat off and threw it on the table. "Really? I hadn't noticed."

"Something happen at the yard today?"

"What if it did?"

Faye picked up a comb lying next to her and began twisting the wire around it to attach the flower.

"What do you think, isn't it pretty?"

Darron moved past her and dragged open a cupboard to reveal bare shelves.

"You didn't come home drunk today."

"Don't remind me. Where's the grog?"

Faye stood up, slipping the comb into her headfur. "Darron, don't you think I look pretty today?" She twirled, her skirt flaring around her legs.

Darron gave her a cold glare. "What did you do with it?"

Faye leaned against the table.

"I picked some flowers."

Darron's gaze went to the table where a familiar looking bottle stood holding a wilting bouquet of dandelions. Faye watched him move around the table until he stood in front of her.

"So you did, my darling, my love."

She stiffened as he put his paws on her waist and drew her to him. "They're pretty, aren't they?"

"No, my love," he whispered, his breath hot on her neck. "They're not."

"But I am, aren't I Darron?" She tilted her head back and looked up at him imploringly. "Darron, tell me I'm pretty."

Keeping one arm around her waist, he reached up and touched the side of her face.

"You were once," he said, "but not today."

She snarled as his claws raked the side of her face and trailed down her neck.

"Stop it! You're hurting me!" She tried to push him away, but he held her tighter.

"But my dearest, my own," he crooned, "you've gone and gotten yourself all pretty for me today. Don't you want my attention?"

He bent and kissed the side of her neck, his teeth nipping where he'd scratched her.

"Darron, stop!" She struggled against him, twisting to try and break his hold on her. She heard something rip, and glanced down to see him standing on the hem of her skirt, a ragged tear working its way up as she fought him.

He laughed. "Look, she's blushing. The wench has a temper!"

Faye flushed hot and snarled at him, "Let me go!"

She stumbled back as he released her suddenly.

"Yes, blow hot and cold on me! Get thee gone if you want to go."

Faye glared at him, chest heaving with anger. "What do you want from me?"

He eyed her and grinned. "A drink. Yes I think that's what this was all about."

She went to the door and flung it open. "Then go get yourself a drink and take it to Hellgates with you!"

He laughed. "Faye, my darling, to what do I owe the honor of this tantrum?"

She stomped her footpaw. "Tantrum be damned!"

"Language my dear, language."

"Why won't you love me?"

Silence fell. Faye glared at her husband as his smile faded.

"Go get me a drink, wench." 

Faye looked around at the Redwall Abbey grounds. In one corner, fire swirled around as a hare performed antics of danger and dismay. Musicians played their instruments to a snappy beat, some of them slightly off key, but it was the beat that mattered. Food was stacked high on makeshift tables that practically groaned under all the weight.

The chatter of friends filled the air, with raucous laughter breaking out occasionally as jokes were told, or the funny mole in the corner with the painted face slipped on the banana peel again.

And in the middle of it all, a tiny figure was sitting on the ground, holding a vial of Jasmine Allure No. 9 and puffing it happily on herself.

"Ella?"

The little weasel looked up at Faye and waved happily.

"Fume!" she said, waving around her vial.

Faye leaned down and picked her up. "I can smell that," she said dryly. "Where's that father of yours?"

"Ella! Oh, Ella, there you are! I was so worried, I'd thought maybe you drowned! Or had been ravished! Or had fallen off a wall! Oh, those horrible woodlanders, they'd poisoned me and locked me up, but I'm here now, Ella, my sweetie, poppy's here! I'll never let you out of my sight again, I promise! Are you okay?"

"Just rather pungent," Faye said, giving her to the frazzled-looking Dominic. "What on earth possessed you to buy her Jasmine Allure?"

Dominic blushed and then produced another vial from his pocket. "Pretty maids deserve pretty things. I can spoil my daughter if I wish. Besides, that lizard over there, Vikraja, wouldn't let Ella have a scarf." He scowled at the lizard in the corner of the grounds and then grinned at Faye. "This one's for you."

"How generous of you."

Dominic shifted back and forth. "Is Darron here?"

Faye shrugged. "Dunno. He said it was none of my affair if he came or not, only to bring him a drink."

Dominic relaxed. "Of course. Well then, speaking of drinks, let's get you one!" He snagged one from a squirrel carrying a tray.

Faye hesitated, looking at Ella, then she looked back at Dominic who was still holding the drink out towards her. She tossed her head and took it.

"Why not? There's no law that says I can't get drunk too, if I like." She winked at him.

"That's the spirit, lass!" A muscular hedgehog leaned against the table, holding a tankard that was nearly as big as him.

She gave him a slow smile. "Thank you, sir. What's your name?"

"Dànaidh, me charming lass."

Faye blinked. "What?"

"Danna!" Ella shrieked and waved her paws around.

"Dahnade?"

"Just call him Dan. Dan and Dom. Finish your drink, Faye."

Faye swatted Dominic's shoulder. "Don't you dare boss me. Besides, if the nice hedgehog likes my company, I don't see why I need to deprive him of it." She winked at the spiky beast before moving away from the table, Ella trailing after her.

The little weasel tugged on her skirt and looked up at Faye with imploring eyes.

"I wan' dwunk, too," she said.

Faye raised an eyebrow at Dominic. "Have you…?"

"No!" sputtered Dominic. "Most certainly not! The very idea!" He balled up his paws into fists. "If I find Walkin's been slipping her anything under my nose..."

Faye reached down and picked up the little weasel. "Nice little maids don't get drunk," she said, holding her mug out of Ella's reach. "Especially not little maids with such pretty dresses."

Ella considered this, her little nose wrinkling in thought. "Yer dwess is p-p-p, p-p-pwetty."

Faye laughed and downed her drink. "Not nearly as pretty as yours, my darling… Gracious! Dominic, did you really let her have _all_ that perfume? I mean, I know that lizard femme was persistent, but really!"

Dominic looked hurt. "I can raise my daughter how I like!"

Ella pulled a small vial out of a hidden pocket and waved it around, spritzing herself more.

"She's used practically the entire thing!"

Dominic crossed his arms. "Have you smelled her diapers recently? Trust me, she _needed_ to use the whole thing! There is nothing wrong with letting her smell nice for once."

"I don't think most creatures associate the word 'nice' with Jasmine Allure No. 9."

"I thought you would like it," he protested.

Faye snorted. "Yes, but I'm married to the village criminal, have five dead children, and a night job at the Assorted Pike."

"They're not dead. I saw Xeke dash past a moment ago. Horrible name, by the way. Besides, it could be worse," Dominic said, following her as she started towards the orchard. "You could be dying like me."

"Don't be silly. You're not dying. And I didn't name him."

"Am too dying!"

"Poppy, his nose cried," Ella informed her, waving the empty bottle of perfume around. "Pillow'n all bwoody!"

"Having nose bleeds again, Dom?"

"What are you doing, rooting about my pillow?" he demanded, cuffing Ella's ear. "I turned it over last night, you little scamp."

"'Scuse me, Faye!"

She turned to see Yarro hurrying towards her, Drey clasped firmly in her arms.

Faye took a step back, a shadow crossing her face. "What is it?"

"I just thought you might like to see her, isn't she lovely! She rolled over all by herself this week!"

Faye glanced at the blinking kit in Yarro's arms.

"Oh?" she said coolly.

"Would you like to hold her?"

Faye licked her lips and stared down at the kit. Soft downy fur covered its little face. Two big grey eyes stared at her solemnly before it smiled and waved its paws in the air.

"No. No I don't want to hold her." Faye took another step away from the other weasel. "Please take her away."

Yarro stared at her, a puzzled look on her face. "But… I wouldn't mind! Really it's–"

"Go away!" Faye snapped. "Take her away! I don't want to see her again!"

She felt Dominic's paw on her shoulder. "Faye, calm down."

She hissed and shrugged him off. "Don't touch me!"

Yarro stared at her a long moment, then, with an indignant glance, turned on her heel and swept away.

"You didn't have to be rude."

"She had Darron's eyes."

"And your pretty little mouth."

"I can't risk him ever suspecting, Dominic. Not ever." She giggled. "Now, stop looking glum. It's a lovely night. That hare dancer almost set that mole's tail on fire, and you have the most ravishing jill in town with you."

Dominic looked back and forth between her and Ella. "I don't suppose you'd like to specify?"

"Me, of course. Ella is only old enough to be pretty. Not ravishing. Oh, would you mind walking me home tonight? Darron asked that I bring back a keg of…" She trailed off and stared at the open front gates. "Speaking of Vulpuz."

"Vulpuz in weasel form," Dom muttered, shifting Ella behind him.

Faye nudged him. "He's your brother. Be nice."

"But you just–"

"I'm married. I'm allowed."

"And since when were brothers supposed to be nice? No one told _him_."

"I thought you were going to wait for me." Faye went to her husband and took his arm. He shook her off, and nodded at Dominic.

"You're still toting that brat around?"

"Darling," Faye whispered, "please be nice tonight."

Darron gave her a feral smile. "I'm always nice, my love. What is that stench? It smells like a brothel here!"

Dominic looked indignant. "Does not! Ella's perfume is just a little... strong."

Darron snorted. "Then why does my wife reek of it as well?"

Faye stepped back. "I thought you liked it."

"Yes, well, you also think that putting weeds on your head makes you look pretty."

"Is there a problem, Mr. Wright?"

"Oh, damn, it's her," Dominic muttered, slinking away from the scene.

Faye turned to see the Abbess standing behind them, paws on hips. She apparently hadn't seen Dominic.

"No, Mother," she said meekly. "My husband was just asking where the drinks were." She stiffened as she felt Darron's paw encircle her waist.

"That's right, Mother," Darron added with a smirk. "My wife was simply giving me directions. Doesn't she look _lovely_ tonight. She's wearing weeds on her head for the occasion of… Ye Fates, what _are_ we celebrating? I've forgotten."

"Darron…"

"Hush, my love, your master's talking."

Faye looked imploringly for Dominic, but he had vanished, and Ella with him.

Abbess Dittany smiled. "The reason for this gathering is the celebration of a peace treaty between vermin and woodlanders."

"And maybe I take exception to being called vermin," Darron snarled. "I'm as good as any one of you."

"Darron, please!"

"Faye, shut up!"

She hissed as his claws dug into her side.

The Abbess crossed her arms and frowned. "I'm sorry for offending you, Mr. Wright, but perhaps if you feel such dislike you should get what you came for and spend a much happier night at home. I believe a relation of yours, Dominic, is in our infirmary if you wish to collect him."

Faye whimpered as his claws dug in further.

Darron smiled at the squirrel. "All right, _Mother_. I'll get what I came for and take my lovely wife home. Come along, darling. We aren't wanted here."

Faye felt herself pulled along, as Darron made a beeline for the gate. Then, the sound hit her.

"Darron, stop."

"I said we're leaving."

"Darron, stop!"

Faye twisted out of his grip and whirled, searching for the sound. It was so loud, why couldn't anybeast else hear it? A child was crying. Somewhere, somehow, she had to get to it. She started running.

"Faye!"

She could hear the command in his voice, and out of self-preservation, her footpaws tried to slow her, stop her.

There it was again…

She ducked between two creatures carrying an enormous platter of cheese to a loaded table and almost ran head-on into a badger and…

She stopped.

"I suppose I'd cry too if someone made me wear that." She waved at the hat.

The young ferret gave a huge sniff and tried to laugh, and instead gave himself the hiccups.

"What's your name?"

"Silver."

"What's wrong, Silver?" She stared, drinking in the sight of him.

"Er... Nothing." He shifted from paw to paw. "What's your name, miss?"

She smiled. "Take off the hat, I can't look at you seriously with it on."

He obliged, glaring at the offending feather.

"That's better. I'm Faye… are your parents here with you? Or are you here with friends?" She paused. "Are you lost?"

"No… no, I'm not lost. I'm here with friends."

"Polite little bugger aren't you?"

"Damn wench I told you to come!" She ducked even as the voice reached her ears, but it was too late. Darron's blow sent her crashing to the ground. "You do as I say!"

She rolled away from the kick she knew had to be there and scrambled to her footpaws.

"He was crying!"

"So? Let his mother coddle him! He isn't yours."

"He's... he..."

Darron stepped closer as she cast around for words. "He's what, my love? Ah, wait, let me guess: He's that one brat you had that lived... Only, I'm sorry he's a ferret. Completely wrong breed there. Still, what a cute hat he's got. Maybe he'll do a dance with it for you, and then you can take him home and keep him as your own."

"Darron, stop."

"My that seems to be your favorite line tonight. You should read more, Faye, expand your vocabulary, only… Oh wait! I forgot. You can't. What a pity."

Faye glanced behind her where Silver was staring at them with huge eyes. "I'd run if I were you," she hissed.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you!"

She snarled as he grabbed her muzzle and forced her to face him. He laughed.

"That's better. Now get up. We're leaving."

Faye found her paw being crushed in Darron's bigger one as he pulled her along. She turned her head to look back at Silver, but the ferret had vanished. The only trace of him being there was the ridiculous hat still lying on the ground. The feather waving impudently.

After collecting Darrons drink and loading a keg of October Ale onto Dominic's cart, which Darron commandeered for the occasion, they departed.

Faye was silent as she trailed home after him. At the door to their shack, he released her paw and, yelling for her to hurry with the ale, vanished inside.

The female weasel glanced at the doorway and then cut around the back of the hut to where five little stones stood grouped together in the far corner of the yard. She knelt down next to the one with a fresh mound of dirt in front of it.

Pulling the comb from her fur, she set it down on top of the grave, touching the wilting petals wistfully as she pulled her paw away.

"Goodnight, my darlings," she whispered.


	7. Debaser

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 6. Debaser  
**

_by Shandi Fen  
_

_"Ungh."_

"Quit it, Shandi, or we'll leave you at home next time."

"Fine by me, Mum, as that's what I told ye to do several times."

Shandi lolled against the cool sandstone wall, emitting another groan of boredom as her mother shook paws with passing lords and ladies and all manner of uninteresting creatures.

"Shandi, I have half a mind to—Ah, Skipper!" Lady Willa's scowl quickly morphed into a grin as the otter approached the wall stairs.

"Wilhelmina, m' dear! How are ye?" the otter asked, his battle-scarred paws completely enveloping the squirrel queen's own as he shook them vigorously.

"Easy there, Skip," Lady Willa winced. "I'm not as young as I once was."

Skipper waved a paw dismissively. "Nonsense, Willa! Ye look not a day o'er twenty."

Shandi rolled her eyes. Maybe the Skipper's act would sound more charming if this hadn't been the millionth time she'd heard it.

"Skip, you remember my husband, Clove, and my daughters, Linnet and...Shandi?" The pause was only momentary, but it didn't make it sting any less.

"O' course, o' course," Skipper said with a grin, shaking each of the squirrels' paws in turn.

If anybeast could inflict whiplash with a simple pawshake, it'd be the Skipper, Shandi thought with a grimace as the otter assaulted her paw.

"I'm Shandi, the older sister, but me mum always introduces me last," Shandi blurted out, then added in a loud whisper, _"because I'm the family embarrassment."_

"That's enough out of you for one day, Shandi," Clove growled.

Lady Willa sighed. "Sorry, Skip."

Skipper shrugged. "Young 'uns, eh? C'mon, we're due up on the ramparts."

The otter's cheery facade collapsed with these last words. Lady Willa patted his arm comfortingly and the two of them began their trek up the stairs to meet the other leaders already gathered there.

"Don't worry, Skip. I have a feeling this will all turn out just fine."

"That makes one of us, then, Willa. I ain't so sure 'bout this treaty."

"Well, the wheels are already in motion, so there's not much..."

The rest of their conversation drifted away on the evening air.

"You really do know how to make a nuisance of yourself," Clove sniffed, eyeing Shandi sternly.

"Aye." Shandi smirked, plucking one of her small throwing hatchets from her belt and flipping it casually in the air.

"Put that ridiculous thing away."

The squirrelmaid shrugged, tossing the axe high into the air and letting it plummet to earth, landing just inches from her sister's footpaws. Linnet shrieked, leaping away from the fallen weapon as though it might chase after her.

"You stupid, fat toad! You nearly had my tail!"

"Enough! Both of you!" Clove bristled, his great brushtail fluffing out irately, and Shandi knew she'd gone too far. "Linnet, watch your mouth. Shandi, put that silly excuse for a weapon away this instant. This is a meeting of _peace_, and you're tossing weapons about for all to see! Just go on, go bother somebeast else. I don't have the patience to deal with you right now."

Shandi scowled as she snatched up her axe and skulked away. _That's right, Father, I'm just a "problem" that you must "deal with."_

She didn't dare say this aloud, of course. The glint in her father's eye at that moment was a particularly murderous one.

~

With the new treaty signed, the gathering of creatures took to celebrating in earnest, feasting, dancing, and...

"This is the tale o' my lover..."

Shandi gazed in abject horror at the ridiculously dressed squirrel on the makeshift stage, clawing at her ears and moaning, "Sweet fancy Vulpuz, will he ever shut up?"

A hissing chuckle greeted her words. Shandi turned around to see a rather lanky lizard (at least, she was pretty sure it was a lizard, based on what little she could see beneath a very silly amount of clothing) unloading a bulky bundle from a merchant cart.

"I see I'm not the only one in agony," Shandi laughed. "Eh, need help with that?"

"No, it'z fine," the lizard grunted, setting the sack down gently and clawing at the drawstring. "I don't care much for the entertainment. The zongz are all zo deprezzing, and the firedanzer iz clumzy dreck. He iz nothing compared to the onez from my homeland."

"No, really? And ye so looked like ye were from around here."

The monitor's flat gaze didn't alter a flicker. "I'm not."

"Oh! No, I know, I was just being..." She trailed off as the draped and scarfed beast continued to look distinctly unamused. "Never mind. What have ye got there?"

At this, a slow grin spread across the reptile's scaly face. "You are lucky; you are the firzt to zee my new and amazing invention." Her polished claws vanished in the sack and rummaged about for some time before carefully extracting a long, colorful, cylindrical...thing...on a stick. A bit of string dangled from the lower end, and the top end was sharpened like a javelin.

Shandi thought this was the most ridiculous thing she'd seen tonight, and that was saying something. Still, the lizard's company was preferable to the other morons she'd seen lolloping about so far, so she decided to humor her.

"That's, erm, rather nice..."

"Let'z juzt zay thiz party will end with a bit of a bang!" the monitor chuckled.

Shandi shuddered. It sounded like a wet sheet being dragged over gravel.

"So," she said, cutting across the lizard's unnerving laughter. "What's yer name, then?"

"Vikraja," she replied, removing more of the strange objects from her bag and beginning to sort them by size and shape.

"Shandi," the squirrelmaid said, and then her eyes widened in realization. "Wait. _You're_ Vikraja? _The_ Vikraja?"

Vikraja looked up from her work, surprised. "You've heard of me?"

"Aye," Shandi chuckled. "Mainly because every one of my mum's squirrels hates ye."

The monitor looked a shade unsettled. "Every...every one of them? But why?"

"Well, basically because ye sold Milfoil a bunch of duff arrows for a pretty hefty price the other day. Milfoil's brother is pretty high up with my mum, the squirrel queen, so...I'm kind of surprised to see ye here in one piece, to be honest."

"Inconzievable! I am not rezponzible for that zort of thing!" Vikraja snapped.

"Easy, there, Vik," Shandi chortled. "I don't give a flaming pile of dung about it. Milfoil's a git anyway, and it's his fault for actually throwing down gold for them. You should've seen him try and shoot those things though. 'Gates, I've never seen a less balanced arrow in my entire..."

"Lzzt! I am a merchant, not a blackzmith. The arrowz were made of zolid gold; what iz there to get upzet about?" She 'hmphed' grandly. "They juzt couldn't uze them properly, that'z it."

Shandi bit her lip to hold back a giggle. "I mean, they just fell flat as soon as the string went _twang_. They just _plummeted_ like a..."

"I get it!" Vikraja snarled.

Shandi shrugged at her annoyed conversational partner. "Well, _I_ don't hate ye, Vik. I'd watch that accessorized little head of yers from now on, though. The squirrels control the treetops around here. Beasts don't pass through Mossflower unless they say so. If I were you, I'd make a break for it now while everybeast's preoccupied."

Vikraja opened her mouth to say something, but at that moment Shandi felt herself get shoved aside roughly.

"Watch it!" a red squirrel barked, struggling to balance the overloaded tray of pastries and other baked goods she bore.

"Speak for yerself," Shandi grumbled.

The red ignored her and began to unload the tray onto a nearby table. Rolls, tarts, pies...A familiar scent drifted through the air.

"Is that...carob?" she asked.

The other squirrel whirled about to face her, ears pressed flat against her head. "Yes, it's carob! Go on, tell me you're on that confounded diet _now_ and let's get it over with!"

Shandi's eyes were fixed covetously on the tray. "No, it's just...I _love_ carob."

"That's what I...Wait, what?"

"Aye, carob used to be everywhere, but I can't seem to find it anywhere these days. Eh, d'you mind?"

Shandi stretched a paw toward the tray, and at first the other squirrel seemed too stunned to answer her. Then she shook her head and said, "Sure. Yes. Help yourself."

Several carob turnovers later—and she really should've stopped herself at three, but they were far too delicious—Shandi wandered around to the moonlit abbey orchard, until the sounds of revelry became a dull hum in the background. She lowered herself gingerly into a sitting position at the base of a pear tree, wincing, and looked up at the star-dusted sky. Her mother seemed to have all but given up on Shandi's forced diet, and the squirrelmaid was surprised she hadn't sent Linnet or one of her cronies around to monitor her dinner. As a result, Shandi's stomach was complaining rather loudly about the burden it now bore.

Monitored meals had been positively _terrific_, of course. After all, what could be more fun for a young squirrelmaid than having all the members of her family scrutinize every single bite she took? _More salad, Shandi. Drink water, not strawberry fizz, Shandi. You've had enough bites of that pasty, Shandi._

"Pah," the squirrel uttered.

They hadn't worked, of course. Shandi knew deep down that her mother would never put her back in the archery program even if they had. Now she faced an even bigger problem, one she had in advance been fairly confident she could face. She was always a little heavier than Linnet or the other squirrels her age, but now her weight was fluctuating unchecked. Before her attempts to gain weight, she'd only been good at maintaining her current weight, and, most unfortunately, not so good at losing it. Why she'd tried so hard to convince herself over and over that it would be easy to lose the weight this time was anybeast's guess. She knew, though, that it had been the only way out. Her mother would have pushed her even further into the training program otherwise. The daughter of a squirrel queen would, naturally, be expected to follow in her mother's pawsteps. Instead, Shandi had learned to use weapons she thought would be far more useful than a bow, as her axes could be thrown as well as held in combat. This had just infuriated her mother even more, much to Shandi's delight.

A petulant whine interrupted Shandi's thoughts, and she saw two dark figures appear around the corner. As quickly as she could muster, the squirrel crawled into a nearby bush, tucking her great tail in behind her. She peered curiously out through a gap in the branches, watching as the figures drew nearer to the orchard. Overhearing private conversations was always good for a laugh.

"Really, Milfoil? Don't whine about it," Clove's voice drifted across the orchard.

"But she's here, Lord Fen!" Milfoil puffed. "Why won't you do anything about it?"

"We happen to have more important business tonight than some lizard."

"But she sold me ornamental arrows and told me they were real! Said every archer in her homeland was using them. She cheated me out of my gold!"

Clove prodded Milfoil roughly in the chest. "_Our_ gold, you mean. You dipped into the treasury's funds without your brother, the Treasurer's consent because you said it was a once in a lifetime opportunity, yes?"

Milfoil hung his head, and Shandi forced down a gale of laughter at how pathetic he looked. "Yes."

"I don't need to remind you how big of an idiot you are, then," Clove growled. "But yes, the lizard won't be getting far with our gold, I guarantee you that much. As I said, we have more important matters to attend to tonight. Go back and enjoy the feast."

Milfoil looked as though he still had a few good complaints left in him, but even he wasn't stupid enough to keep the squirrel lord detained. He nodded and slunk off.

"Finally."

Lady Willa hopped down from her perch in a particularly old and overgrown apple tree nearby. "We were supposed to meet here at precisely the same time. Alone. You kept me waiting again, of course."

Clove embraced his wife. "Dearest, you know how clingy that idiot is, especially when he's complaining about something."

They locked tight together in a passionate kiss. Shandi looked away and did her level best not to vomit.

"Is everything ready, then?" Clove asked when they broke apart.

"Yes, everything is working out exactly as we'd planned," Willa cooed, her bushy tail entwining with Clove's. Shandi tried even harder not to vomit.

"Does the Skipper approve?"

"I didn't get a chance to tell him, but Clove, dear, you know he hates the treaty as much as we do, and I'm sure he'll see that this is the only way."

"Wilhelmina," Clove said firmly, holding his wife at arm's length. "Are you absolutely certain that this is the road you wish to go down? You do realize that after this there is no turning back?"

"I know," Willa said after only a moment's hesitation. "The abbess's death is the only way to make the woodlanders see that this treaty, while nice enough in theory, could never actually work. That Dittany would be murdered tonight, of all nights, at the Solstice of _Peace_, will solidify the fact even more firmly in their minds."

No...that couldn't be right. Shandi had misheard, hadn't she? They wouldn't dare...

Clove nodded. "It is unfortunate that it had to come to this, but you're right. Killing the abbess and framing the vermin is the only way. The best way. The way that will have the most impact." He paused, his ears standing to attention. "Did you hear something?"

Mentally Shandi went down the long list of every curse she knew, leaving no stone unturned. Damn it all to Vulpuz, her infernal stomach had picked precisely the wrong time to give a particularly ostentatious gurgle. Her mother descended upon the bush with almost frightening speed, grabbing Shandi roughly by the collar and dragging her out into the open.

Shandi felt bile rise at the back of her throat as she fell flat on her already complaining stomach. She spat, struggling to all fours. Her mother and father stood over her, paws folded across their chests.

"Hello, Shandi," Willa said, her voice surprisingly calm. "Seeing as you've failed in your training, failed in your diet, and failed in your inability to keep your nose out of something that you really shouldn't have overheard...how would you like to redeem yourself tonight?"

It was not really a question; it was more of a command. Shandi's eyes widened in horror as the full weight of her mother's words came down upon her. She swallowed, her throat burning wickedly. Only now did she wish that she would've stayed and listened to Vikraja yammer on about her invention. Even that was preferable to this.


	8. Well, This Place is Awful Crowded

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 7. Well, This Place is Awful Crowded  
**

_by Aya  
_

"Aya, get this pot of hotroot soup out to the tables! I'll turn the pies, just get going!"

The commanding voice of the Abbey cook grated on her nerves, but Aya bit her tongue and reluctantly turned away from the ovens to accept the large, steaming pot of heavily-spiced broth swimming with shrimp. She had only agreed to help Cedric with the baking for the feast, but with the sheer number of beasts who had turned up for the treaty she'd been roped in to help with the cooking and serving as well.

_Of course… that's what I get for asking him for a place to stay. Could be worse, I suppose. He could've asked me to clean up after, too. Hah, I'd like to see him try! _

The plump mouse cook hooked a serving ladle to Aya's apron as she sped off in the direction of the feasting tables, the fumes from the pungent dish causing her eyes to water nearly to distraction. The smooth redstone walls resounded with the murmurs of a hundred different voices; the resulting cacophony hung in the air like an early morning's fog, baffling the senses while intriguing the mind.

The red squirrel took quiet satisfaction in the eye-blinking discomfiture of the nearest thronging beasts as she pushed and hollered her way to the serving table. Plunking the pot down just in time to avoid dropping it, Aya rubbed her aching forearms and pushed back toward the kitchens, wincing at the sound of a quavering voice rising over the stilling clamor in the hall.

_What, does he really think he's a bard? I've heard better poetry when Cedric gets into the ale cellar! Augh, why won't he stop with the caterwauling? The wildcats will think he's starting something! _

Mercifully, the bustle and clanging of the kitchen drowned out the bard's voice for a few blessed moments. Aya located an empty serving tray and stood while Arvik loaded it as heavily as he dared with fresh berry pies, two kinds of turnovers, elderberry-cordial tarts, hazelnut-flour rolls, and a large meadowcream trifle. The grey-whiskered vole's glum expression didn't change as Aya grumbled a quick thank-you; if anything, he looked even more despondent as he turned back to filling another dozen eel pies to feed the meat-loving feasters from the treaty-signing delegations. Re-balancing the tray in her paws, Aya stuck out her tongue at his back before whisking back out to replenish the dessert station.

The bard must have finished his song while she retraced her steps to the feasting hall because applause and laughter had given way to conversation and chewing once more. Dodging the longing stares and grasping paws directed at her tray, the squirrel had nearly arrived at the forlornly empty dessert table when a rotund squirrel backed directly into her path. It was all Aya could do to keep from overbalancing the tray as she turned and took the impact on her shoulder.

_Ruddy Gates! I almost lost the whole batch! _

"Watch it!" Aya barked, and then snorted as the plump squirrel offered a cheeky reply. She wanted nothing more than to kick the obviously over-indulged youngster right in her ample gut, but to her surprise, the other female's eyes were affixed dreamily to the nearly-empty tray.

Temporarily baffled, Aya relaxed enough to remember the still-heavy tray in her arms. Swiftly unloading the last few items, she hesitated, then turned and shoved a still-warm turnover into her erstwhile adversary's paws.

"Here," she said gruffly, "try it. It's my own recipe." Not waiting for a response, the red squirrel pushed away through the crowd, her empty tray serving as a battering ram with the force of her weight behind it.

The night's feasting was well under way. Everywhere she looked Aya saw contented, well-lubricated beasts slapping each other on the back and masticating in gluttonous satisfaction. It was a bit jarring to see the sheer number of flesh-eaters gathered within the confines of the Abbey walls and spilling out onto the lawns, but they were every bit as drunk and happy as the woodlanders they were carousing with. Maybe the bally-hoed peace treaty had better than a passing chance at actually bringing about peace.

It wasn't as if there wasn't peace already, though. Aya had seen it with her own eyes, experienced it first-paw. It was on a small scale, in individual towns, where different beasts twined their livelihoods together. Every morning they rose and went about their daily work without regard for what went into that night's soup, so long as it wasn't one's neighbor, of course. But the point was, at the end of the day, every beast was just as messed-up as his neighbor, and they all could use a good pie.

_Nah, it's the leaders as have all the trouble making peace with each other. If they weren't so full of themselves, even the Abbess— _

"It's Aya, isn't it?"

The Abbess's voice cut through Aya's introspection, startling her with a pang of guilt at the substance of her train of thought.

"Aye, it is, marm," she replied warily, eyeing the other squirrel. If not for their different ranks, they could have been peers, but the Abbess had a look about her that spoke of untold burdens carried in silence. She was also twitching her tail in annoyance, a tell-tale sign that caused Aya to instinctively prepare for a verbal onslaught.

"I thought as much. Whatever possessed Cedric t' clear out th' dryin' closet and turn the kitchen t' an inn I can't say, but at least he's makin' you work for your room and board. There's a good lass," Abbess Dittany said with some smug satisfaction seeping into her tone, but even as she spoke her eyes roved about the hall.

Aya bristled. To be condescended to by the Abbess was bad enough, but to not even be thought worthy of her full attention? It was all she could do not to hurl her clenched paws at the Abbess's delicate face. Fortunately, the burly otter-guard standing a few paw-lengths away was sufficient to remind Aya of the consequences that attended losing one's temper around beasts in charge, and she forced herself to smile through gritted teeth.

"Yes, marm."

The Abbess merely nodded her way and then swept past, her drab habit swishing against Aya's side as she pursued the object of her fixation.

The night's next entertainment had just taken the stage outdoors as Aya stalked outside to a spot in the shadows to glower at the slightly-singed hare. He looked familiar… ah, yes. The kitchens were rife with rumors of various imbroglios he'd danced into and out of in his short stint at the Abbey. For her part, Aya just wanted a good show which, for her, involved something going wrong—the more wrong the better, so long as there were no permanent injuries.

_A fire dancer? Really? I hope he's better at juggling fire than he is at juggling females… blast!_

The squirrel snorted in disgust. The hare was barely into his act but was already showing unfortunate signs of competence in his work.

_Where's the fun in watching if you know he's not going to drop anything or set something on fire? Well, let's see how he handles THIS! _

It was the work of a moment to remove the sling from its place at her waist and load it with one of the old scones she carried in detachable pockets. With a well-practiced snap of the wrist, Aya terminated the arc of her swing and loosed the rock-hard projectile, sending it swooping in the approximate direction of the entertainer's head. To her disappointment, the hare managed to catch it neatly in a paw without dropping his flaming whip.

_I really need to practice more on moving targets. _


	9. When the Battle's Lost and Won

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 8. When the Battle's Lost and Won  
**

_by Dànaidh a'Sginnearach_

"Ye hate me, dinnae you?"

Dànaidh a'Sginnearach sneered as he slapped a yellow-stained wood disc atop a green-stained disc at the center of the table, gnawing at the stump of blackroot protruding from the corner of his jaw. The hedgehog raised his gaze slowly, eyeing his opponent across from him. "Well, do ye now, ya chookter?"

The able-bodied shrew sat with arms folded, frowning at the makeshift game board they had fashioned with chalk on the tabletop. The meandering edges and smudges betrayed their inebriated artistic efforts. The shrew tapped at his chin as he groaned his frustration, the hedgehog mocking an expression of amazement. The shrew flicked his gaze to the hedgehog and back to the board quickly.

"What're you doin'?" he asked, his bass voice reinforced with a small burp.

"Baskin' in th' glory o' a stoatin' mind," the hedgehog sighed, resting his face in his cupped paws as he batted his eyelashes. "Och, what great intellect! The keen…tactical…tacticalness…"

"Dànaidh!" the shrew interrupted. "Yer drunk an' I hate you somethin' terrible!" He threw his paws wide and sank back into his chair. "Bask, ya devil! _Bask_!"

"Glow!" Dànaidh giggled as he removed a green wooden block from the edge of the board and threw it over his head. He rose to his footpaws amid light applause from the creatures sitting at nearby tables, raising his tankard high and pulling the blackroot from his mouth. "A toast, lads! To Trip the shrew!" He bowed slightly to his opponent, who raised his own tankard and eyebrow simultaneously. "A good sport 'n' sonsie basker! May ye all beat 'im as soundly as I have!"

"You rogue!" Trip grinned from ear to ear as cheers and shoulder pats surrounded him. He nodded to the well-wishers and drank a mighty swallow from his tankard. "Yer a good mate, Dànaidh. I'd toast you m'self, iffen it didn't mean I'd join you in Hellgates!"

"Aye," Dànaidh said, collapsing into his chair like thunder. "'n' I might enjoy it: change of scenery, a sight better climate, na stodgy pew-hoppers crowdin' ye…but I don't take to fancyin' Asmodeus biting after me arse." He smiled and winked as Trip erupted in cough-laden laughter. "Anither round, Trip, t'take those coughs awa'!"

"I need t'stop losin'," Trip grumbled, fumbling for his money clasp at the small of his back. "Yer always thirsty."

Dànaidh shook his head, replacing the blackroot to the corner of his lips and snapping once towards the bar. "Trip me lad, when you've gone sae deep in th' muck na breathin' beast 'as e'en _heard_ o' ale, grog or mead, yer throat gits a bit dry. Nae much muddy water kin do." He smiled as a mousemaid approached the table. "B'sides, I'm nae fightin' tonight! I've got a' least thee days o' sleep I'm needin' t' fall on." He coughed three short, hollow coughs and inhaled slowly.

Trip nodded. "You look better, Dànaidh. More stout. And you've been practicin' with your reader—I can tell." Dànaidh returned the nod as Trip turned to the mousemaid. "Yes, another round of drinks for my awful friend, and score up a cup of Beet Brew, please?" He handed the mousemaid two pieces of Silver.

The mousemaid gawked at the generous amount Trip left in her paw. "Yessir, but…I don't have any beets to—"

Trip pulled up a bulging haversack from below his chair. "You can keep one o'those coins for y'self if you hurry," he said, handing her the sack. "Oh, and bring me back the rest of th'beets."

The mousemaid beamed and curtsied. "Yessir!" As she disappeared, Trip sniffed and grimaced, waving in front of his face with a paw and burying his snout in the collar of his shirt.

"Burn my bridges! Dànaidh, was that you?" He turned to the hedgehog with watering eyes.

Dànaidh halted in mid-grasp, looking up at Trip with his paw surrounding Trip's tankard. "Was _what_ me?" He closed his eyes and pressed at them with his free paw. "Cor, Trip, don't make me think tae hard, mm?"

"The scent, you buffoon!"

Dànaidh stole the tankard and sat upright, sniffing. "I dinnae smell it, so it weren't me." He sniffed again, turning, and gestured toward an unconscious rat sprawled across a table and chair, snoring through a gaping, slobbery maw. An occasional bubble floated up from the rat's jaws and popped above his head with a following snore. "I think it's him."

Trip snickered and shook his head. "Sorry, Dànaidh…I thought you'd—"

Dànaidh leaned in close to the rat's posterior and sniffed, turning his head and raising an eyebrow. "Hmm." He returned to his original position and nodded to Trip. "Yep, 'twas him, poor bastard. He's planted quite a caller fer himself, 'n' he'll nae enjoy wakin' up that ripe." He swallowed the remaining contents of Trip's tankard and exhaled in satisfaction. "But na apologies necessary, Trippy. You'll git to know mah scents better ower time." He closed an eye and bit a lip; a hollow, tinny sound shot up from Dànaidh's chair. "Now _that_ was me."

"You're rotten!" Trip exploded, leaning forward with both paws on the table. Dànaidh followed, leaning in until their snouts scrunched together. They stood staring and silent until Dànaidh twitched slightly, a quiet snort escaping his nose. Trip bit his lip to keep the smile from growing around the edge of his mouth. Suddenly the two were falling back into their chairs, clutching their stomachs as they shook with terrific laughter. Dànaidh leaned back until he upset his chair, his legs splaying like weeds in the wind. Trip and Dànaidh continued to laugh as the hog stumbled to his footpaws, struggling to right his chair. He leaned over to the table occupied by the comatose rat, grabbed his tankard, sniffed the contents and knocked them back down his throat.

"Easy there, Dànaidh," Trip warned, wagging a meandering claw. "I can—can't carry you home."

Dànaidh nodded and pursed his lips in seriousness, turning back to the rat's table. He sat the empty glass down and patted the rat's snoring head. "Corinth bless ya f'th' drink, lad." He wheeled, almost fell again, and caught the back of his chair to straighten himself. "Bah, I'm as stout as a tree trunk! You worry about yersel', wee 'un."

"Wee one?" Trip narrowed his eyes. "I could take you, Dànaidh. Three Gold to flesh says you'd remember what I gave you tomorrow!"

Dànaidh descended very slowly in his chair, lifting his head to face Trip with effort. "A few bruises? Aye. Mebbe e'en a loose tooth or two. But ye cannae hurt me, Trip. You love me awfy much."

_The Haze came. He couldn't control it; he could have, if he had kept his drinking in check. It dulled his senses and calmed him down…at least that's what he told himself. In reality—and he knew this deep down, back where he watched them bury his dead opponents as the cash collected in his open paw—it brought him closer to The Edge. He didn't realize it until he was already there, dancing on The Edge and feeling the push of the wind daring him to fall over, to careen and leap into dead air, to pitch and collapse completely into the murky depths of The Haze, which gave him The Spectacle._

Normal Time was his at peace. He saw what others saw. He knew his limits; he had never been one for subtleties, unspoken communication, flights of fancy or other social games, and that made him an outcast for ladies and gentlebeasts. Cufflinks and collars, evening gowns and perfume, air on strings and polite laughter all made him confused. What was the allure? He was a simple hog with simple tastes. Warm food, plenty of strong drink, sometimes a someone to hold him in the dark, and time…time to do whatever, or time to do absolutely nothing. It was his time, and he cherished it more than any winnings purse could bring.

But he couldn't be peaceful. It wasn't his way. They trained him well, if he could think of it as training. It was forced on him. Sharpened sticks and wrapped chains, dirty water and filthy rags, muddy pits and claws and teeth…always teeth…and the sharp, metal scent of blood. These were their tools, and they wielded them without mercy. He remembered the first one: a young rat that had just outgrown his birth fuzz. The fight was quicker than he anticipated, and he huddled, shivering, in the corner when it was done. They came and drug him over and forced him to stand over the broken body, squeezed his cheeks hard and told him to look. This is death, and it makes you strong. Then they laughed and beat him and locked him up for a long time. He didn't try to keep track of the days. He could feel himself growing older, and was aware of the heat of sun and the cool of darkness.

They told him of The Edge, made him feel it and map it out. He knew its shape, knew where the edges were and the depths of its shallows and trenches. They told him to befriend The Edge—it would make him stronger. They forced him to it early and told him beneath its surface lay The Haze, and that's what they wanted more than anything. Get him to The Haze and he'll kill anything that moves. He dove through The Edge and nearly drowned in The Haze, and it cost him untold hours (or days?) on a small cot, gagging on a wet cloth to keep from biting out his own tongue. They eased him back and told him to be careful or they'd break his bones again. He cleared his thoughts and tried to picture The Edge, but it came on him so fast he nearly passed it again. The first score of fights went by in a blur; he allowed himself to sprint past The Edge and welcomed The Haze with a snarl. He'd come around later and have to ask another fighter about his match. They would laugh and shake their heads. It was during a practice match that he learned how to breach The Edge and keep himself alive in The Haze, and that's when he started killing more than ever before. The Haze gave him The Spectacle.

The Spectacle showed him an altered mirror of the real world. Colors, shapes and places all remained normal, but his view of beasts changed. Wherever he looked, he would see potential wounds grow on them—a torn eye socket, a gash on the jaw exposing teeth and gums, a severed artery, a protruding and bloodied collarbone, massive splotches of brown and green bruises bursting from internal hemorrhages. As his focus on them moved, so too would the potential wounds he could inflict on them. He knew how to accomplish each injury with precision, so in a sadistic manner, The Spectacle gave him a horribly accurate smorgasbord that he could choose from. Seeing through The Spectacle was ghastly, but it ended many deadly fights and left him with few life-threatening injuries himself.

So now he was drunk, and he'd passed The Edge when he left sobriety behind, and the wobbly Haze he inhabited forced him to see through The Spectacle. Trip's familiar grin was replaced with a bloody, toothless smile. A jagged hole appeared at his throat. He scratched at the back of his head, and his ear disappeared, along with a good swatch of fur and skin from his skull. Dànaidh closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose, trying to calm down, calling for his right mind—his tide—to come back and wash The Haze away. He'd summoned his own tide before…all he needed was time…

"—eh Dànaidh?"

Dànaidh opened his eyes slowly. The Spectacle was still there. He sighed.

"What'd you say, ye old borgus frat?"

Trip leaned in across the table, winking. "I said you're easy to love when you're not around!" Trip clapped a paw over his mouth as the two fell back into another round of drunken laughter, tears falling down their cheeks as they thumped the table.

Their revelry ended with a harsh bark.

"Hey, Norther! Keep ya liquor quiet an' shaddup, eh?" A mean looking hare snickered from his spot against the bar, his head wrapped in a strange hood. Two black, glossy large orbs protruded from where his eyes should have been.

"What's this, now?" Dànaidh said, rising slowly and straightening his posture. "A crabby rabbit?"

"Ooh!" The hare mocked a blow to the heart, a cruel smile twisting across his scarred face as he nodded to the weasel, squirrel and otter drinking with him. "That's below the skirt, chum. Poor eyesight, obviously."

"Obviously," Dànaidh nodded, stepping forward. He carefully tucked the stub of blackroot into a pocket. "But then me ma ne'er let me play wi' a goofy-lookin' numty."

"She dressed you in a skirt, though, right?" The hare took a swallow of his orange drink.

Another step. "Aye. Only when th' wimpy wee jimmies needed a beatin'. It made 'em feel comfortable."

"I'll bet you make a fair princess."

"When th' lights are on, laddie, I'm a sight tae see. But you'll nae forget me in th' bedsheets."

"C'mon, you tell that to all the boys."

Dànaidh stopped mere inches from the hare, inhaling a strong scent of rot. "Bless yer heart," he said. He slapped the hare across his left cheek, then back-crossed the right; the strikes cracked like whip snaps. A thin line of blood trickled down the hare's lip as he flushed in embarrassment and rage. He slammed his drink down on the bar and reached for the dagger sheathed below the waist of his pants. Dànaidh grabbed the hare's forearm and thrust to the right, never breaking eye contact. The hare's arm broke at the shoulder and fell loose in Dànaidh's paws. The hare bawled and collapsed to the floor, his shriek bringing his drinkmates to life. The clink of drawn weapons blended with assorted cursing and roars.

_This is a public place…_

"Skew the son of a bitch!" The squirrel charged with a stained dirk, his eyes wild. Dànaidh backed up two steps.

_Don't kill them! This isn't a match!_

"Whoreson!" The squirrel slashed in a wide arc. Dànaidh caught his wrist and broke it back against his arm with a squeal. He let the squirrel drop to his knees as the weasel and otter dove into him, crashing through several tables and chairs and spilling assorted food and drink across the tavern. He shifted his weight and rolled the weasel over his head in an awkward cartwheel, but the otter pinned him to the ground, bludgeoning his face and head with his balled paws. He heard other shouts from above and the sounds of another fight breaking out; he _had_ to get this otter off of him. A well-aimed shot connected with the bridge of his snout and Dànaidh's head ricocheted off the hard floor. He saw pale yellow for several seconds and fought to stay awake, churning up the murky waters of The Haze and allowing its greasy fog to darken.

"Get off him!" someone barked. The otter continued his attack, snarling and biting at Dànaidh's defending paws. Two strong beasts tackled the otter and held him fast to the ground as another hoisted Dànaidh to his feet and pulled his arms behind him, attempting to bind his paws. Dànaidh snorted and broke through the blindness of pain, suddenly aware of a dozen Long Patrol officers breaking up the fights. Another voice cried out, "Watch out, mates! This…hare…looks like he's got mange." A stout male with chinfur stared directly at Dànaidh, pointing at him.

"Stand down, sir! This is for your protection!"

Dànaidh reared back and connected the back of his skull with the face of the officer attempting to restrain him. The officer yelped and released his hold on Dànaidh; the hog charged the hare in front of him and ducked under his desperate but poorly aimed punch. Dànaidh drove his paw against the hare's knee and knocked it soundly out of place. He grabbed the hare by the front of his red uniform as he fell screaming and reared back a paw, ready to demolish his nose. A blow to the side of his head from a billy club sent him to the ground without a sound. Several of the LP officers gathered around him, clubs drawn. The hare who struck him nodded to the others as he stuck his own stick through its hold on his belt and wiped at his bleeding snout and crushed lips.

"Lay in to him, fellas. There's a penalty for striking a Lieutenant."

Dànaidh came to in an awkward standing position. His head throbbed in a million different shades of purple hate and torrential pain that massaged every inch of his brain and threatened to poke out his right eye. He exhaled hard and sucked down his saliva—he was so thirsty! His arms refused to move; he lifted his eyes and saw his wrists were chained through a series of hoops that held several other beasts in similar restraints. He recognized the squirrel, weasel and otter, but there were rats, stoats, ferrets and mice chained as well. Light from a suspended lamp shot a fresh sting through his eye and he shut them quickly, desperate to end the nagging hurt. He twitched and coughed twice, feeling the familiar weight on his lungs. _Damn those coughs!_

"What else? Tell me, filth ears!"

Dànaidh opened his eyes again. Several red-jacketed Long Patrol officers stood around the mange-riddled hare tied to a rickety chair directly under the lamp, their sleeves rolled up and their paws bruised and bloodied. The hare bled from multiple lacerations and gashes, his face a torrent of sweat and blood. He moaned and whined and shook with every breath, fear wiping every trace of smug superiority from his face. One of the officers—the one with a green, black, yellow and blue roundel just above his armband—hovered over the hare and gestured to the officer directly to his left; that officer pinched and twisted one of the hare's ears, and as he grimaced and yelped, the central officer reared back and slugged him savagely. The chair collapsed under the blow and two of the officers stooped down and righted it as the slugger shook the pain and assorted liquids from his paw.

"Leave 'im alone—he's just a bully." Dànaidh surprised himself by speaking up.

The central officer's head whipped around. "What was that, sah?" he asked. His voice betrayed his own surprise at Dànaidh's outburst.

"Na tae kill 'im just fer you're pent up 'n' don't have a'beast tae rammy." He smirked at that one; it felt good to verbally punch the self-righteous.

"I see." The central officer jerked his head to his subordinates; they untied the beaten hare and drug him over to the far corner, slapping his wrists through manacles and pulling them taught against the main chain of the wall. "And who, may I bally well ask, do I have the pleasure of addressing, wot?"

"Dànaidh a'Sginnearach, o' th' burgh Cwet Bair." Dànaidh pulled on his chains, giving him enough leeway to imitate a bow. "'n' ye, good mammal?"

The hare straightened his collar and nodded formally. "Captain Ferguson Q. Parsenwaller, Squadron Leader of Queen Group, Long Patrol, sah." He gestured to two of the younger hares. "Please bring our jolly narrator over here."

As the two hares unlocked Dànaidh's chains, the door to the room opened and Skipper of Otters entered, followed by Abbess Dittany. All of the LP officers stood at attention, dropped to a knee and extended a paw toward the abbess. "Your grace," they greeted in unison.

"Please, rise," Dittany said, smiling at the handsome and supple group before her. "I'd heard your squadron arrived, but I didn't receive your greetin', Captain."

"Apologies, Grace," Parsenwaller said, accepting her hand and kissing it lightly. "We've come off twelve-hour patrol, and what with the traveling and all, I gave the boys permission to enjoy the festivities, don'tcha know? I'm afraid this rabble"—he gestured around the room—"caused a bit of a blimey ruckus before I could extend formal pleasantries."

"I see," Dittany said, staring at the wretched lot. Her gaze stopped at Dànaidh, who walked between the two officers towards Parsenwaller. He nodded politely to her, and she smiled. "Mister Hedgehog, what are you doin' in here?"

"I'm sorry t'say this one started the fight," Parsenwaller said, frowning. "Don't let his charm fool you; he broke quite a few bones this afternoon, including a sergeant's knee and lieutenant's nose, wot."

"You attacked Long Patrol officers?" Dittany asked.

Dànaidh shrugged. "They was breakin' up a legitimate expression o' conflictin' ideas, ma'am."

"Oh, stuff me grandmarm," Parsenwaller scoffed.

Dittany frowned at him and turned back to Dànaidh. "Still, that's no reason t' attack officers o' th' peace. You're too young t' get mixed up with vermin."

She raised her paw towards his face. His irises shrank.

_She's going to touch me!—don't touch me DON'T touch me I don't know you I don't know where your paws've been or what you do you're a stranger Why can't you leave me alone this is None of your business crazy Beasts touch others without Permission I didn't tell you You could I didn't touch you don't do it Don't Do It **DON'T DO IT**_

She touched his cheek gently. "Just cooperate and everythin' will turn out fine, dear."

He blinked twice, rapidly. The Edge. The Haze. The Spectacle.

Parsenwaller saw the change, but too late.

"Don't touch me," Dànaidh mumbled.

His paws moved like smoke on the air, clapping both of the hares flanking him on their arms, driving them behind him in pain to the floor. He pulled back his right arm and bent at his right knee as Dittany said "Wha—?" He released the force of energy in the form of a flat-pawed shove that socked the abbess in her sternum, knocking the wind from her lungs as she flew back against the far wall and crashed against it, collapsing in a heap.

The next moment was a blur: Parsenwaller barking profanity-laced commands; nearby officers leaping onto Dànaidh, punching and kicking at him until he collapsed under their barrage; chained vermin hooting and hollering their support to Dànaidh; Skipper running over to Dittany's side, helping the abbess to her feet, growling at Dànaidh. She stood up shakily, her face pale and sickly and overrun with fury, a small stain of vomit spattered on her habit.

"Captain," she whispered, her eyes dark, "I think this creature needs some discipline in his manners."

"Indeed, wot," Parsenwaller said, nodding to Skipper as the otter led her to the door and helped her exit. Parsenwaller closed the door quietly and turned the lock, pulling his billy club free in one tug. "We'll see what he's made of, won't we, lads?"

"Aye," came the angry chorus. Popped knuckles and clubs slapping paws echoed in the room. Two hares hoisted Dànaidh to his knees, restraining his legs with their footpaws and holding his arms tight. He felt his chin rise by of the clubs lifting it, and found himself staring directly into the fiery eyes of Parsenwaller.

"Ah, shite," Dànaidh said.


	10. The Merchant of Noonvale

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 9. The Merchant of Noonvale  
**

_by Juniper_

"There you are."

It had taken until the sun had set far below the Abbey ramparts, but at long last Juniper had spied his target, thanks to the rustling of branches and the darkened splotch on the wall that he was somehow able to make out despite the starry night sky. He walked through the bushes, making his presence known to the ferret kit whose back was pressed against the ancient sandstone blocks.

Daskin's look of surprise was quickly exchanged for one of annoyance and aggravation once he saw who had spotted him.

"What do you want?" If Daskin was trying to mask his tone, it was a poor effort. His voice reeked of embarrassment and sulk.

Juniper looked back to where the troupe had set up, hoping that Hector was there so he could let him know that Daskin had been found, but the cart stood all by its lonesome. They were all probably gorging themselves and resting up before the play. Juniper laid an idle paw on his stomach as he realized just how hungry he was. He'd have to stop by the pond for a bite of fish before heading back.

"After we finished setting things up, Hector told me to eye on you for a while." He proffered a paw, helping the kit rise.

Daskin sighed a heavy sigh. "Are you sure he didn't ask you to _spy_ on me for a while?"

"Hmm," Juniper mused, his paw rubbing his throat as he tried to recall Hector's exact wording. "Maybe."

Daskin brushed his clothes free from dirt and leaves. "Well, you're doing a fine job of it."

Juniper shrugged and gave the ferret a gentle push to move him out of his hiding spot. He wasn't immediate to follow, instead taking the time to search the ground for an object that was noticeably absent from Daskin's possession.

"What happened to your hat?"

"Search me. I lost it when a pair of weasels got into a fight."

"Is that right?" Juniper's brow furrowed, upset that he had missed the show. He popped his head over the bushes, hoping to see if they were still at it, but everything seemed as calm as the breeze. He joined Daskin on the lawn. "Well, let's go and find it."

"Do we have to? I think I'm better off without it."

The otter frowned at the kit's dismissive attitude. "I don't think so. You can't be in the troupe without a hat; that's the whole point of it."

"Well, it's stupid." Daskin kicked a piece of sod on the ground.

"You're stupid!"

The ferret's face twisted in indignation. "I am not!"

Juniper gave him another shove. "Come on, it can't be too far from here."

After a quick look around the Abbey grounds produced fruitless results, Juniper and Daskin entered the great sandstone building, the otter's eyes going wide at the size of the room and the amount of beasts milling about inside. It was larger than any room than he had ever seen before, and there were beasts from all walks of life. Mice, hedgehogs, squirrels, weasels, ferrets, wildcats; every species was represented in some fashion, with the exception of wolverines and any other choice creature that Juniper could not think of off the top of his head. He was pretty sure the Marlfox population had gone extinct years ago, and there didn't seem to be that many birds, either. He wondered if any of them had been invited.

Despite the track his mind was on, beads of sweat could be seen dampening Juniper's fur as he thought of performing for all these creatures. Performing! In front of them! They would all be watching him up on the stage, viewing his every movement, listening to every word he would say. If he misspoke or turned his back on them by accident, they would all know, and he'd ruin everything. He pulled the floppy yellow hat from his head and tried to dry his fur as best he could, but it did little to ease his discomfort. The temperature in the Abbey continued to climb. It was all very intimidating.

A small body pressed itself close, breaking the otter from his thoughts, and he turned his head to see Daskin looking around, but without purpose. Juniper smiled as he ruffled the kit's headfur, eliciting a whine as Daskin tried to correct the otter's mussing. Turning his sights to the ground, he spied the grey hat sitting in an isolated corner.

Juniper ran to retrieve it. "Ahh, here we are!"

"Oh, look at that. It's been ruined. Well, I guess I can't wear it anymore," Daskin said, adopting a look of mock disappointment.

"Nonsense," replied the otter as his paw shot through the underside, popping the dent undoubtedly caused by an oblivious footpaw. "There we go!" He inspected his work, pleased with the results. It wasn't perfect by any means, but it was good enough. Juniper made a short attempt at smoothing out the lines, but abandoned it for fluffing the feather once he saw he was getting nowhere. "Good as new, though it might be a little bent. Here you are!" He presented the hat to the ferret kit.

"Thanks," Daskin grumbled. His paw went over the top, feeling the creases and the damage that had been done, then he put it on his head.

Juniper twisted the hat so that the feather was in better view before he smiled. "Grand. Come on, I have something to show you."

"What is it?"

"You'll see." Juniper grinned as he looked behind him. He had already cleared Great Hall and stepped outside to the lawn, forcing Daskin to run and catch up if he didn't want to be left behind.

"So what am I calling you again? Shadow? Silver?" Juniper asked once the kit had reached his side.

"Silver, remember? I'm supposed to be an acrobat."

"An acrobat, eh? Have you ever acrobatted before?"

"Umm, no." Daskin's paw touched the left side of his tunic. "It can't be hard, though. All they do is tumble around."

"Aye, just a lot of tumbling."

"Oh, Glacis, you're so, so … _charismatic_!"

Juniper turned his head to the shouts and exclamations coming from the archery range. A pine marten, whom he assumed was Glacis, had scored his third bull's eye.

"I know, I know," the marten replied.

Those not entranced by the show at the torchlit archery range were gathering around one of the stages where a squirrel and hare were performing a song and dance number. The sudden music prompted Juniper to hum a ditty as he led Daskin to their destination, until movement disrupted the otter's nonsensical song, the same movement that Daskin had repeated three times now: touching the left side of his tunic for a solitary moment before dropping the paw to his side. Juniper smirked and waited three paces before his paw dove inside Daskin's tunic, withdrawing the parchment before the ferret kit could react.

"Give it back!" Daskin demanded, jumping up and grasping at the scroll in Juniper's paw.

Juniper raised his arm. "What, this thing?"

"Give it back!"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Juniper stuck out his other paw, planting the ferret to the ground and driving him wild. Daskin grabbed at the otter's arm, trying to shove it away, but it was like a mouse trying to wrestle a badger, and it was clear who was the badger.

"This isn't funny!"

The otter smirked. "I don't know; I want to disagree with you."

Daskin let loose a frustrated noise before he ducked under the offending paw, grappling at Juniper's clothing and fur to scale the otter as though he were a squirrel on a tree. Juniper switched paws once Daskin reached his arm, directing the ferret to scamper across his chest, and then his back as he switched them again.

"You weren't kidding when you said you were an acrobat. Look at that! You haven't even dropped your hat. That's skillful."

Daskin growled, continuing to scrabble all over the burly otter as he persisted in the trek to their destination. Once they reached it, Juniper dropped his arm, the kit crawling downwards towards the scroll and giving Juniper the perfect opportunity to grab the scruff of his neck, forcing the ferret to go limp.

"Here we are!" He placed Daskin on the ground, then offered him the parchment.

Daskin snatched the scroll and stuffed it back in his tunic, muttering something fierce. His ear pinned back as Juniper flicked it, and the kit look up in despondence.

The otter returned the look with a frown. "None of that, now. Nice words."

"Iz he yourz?"

"I don't think so. He's no otter, that's for certain. I've been asking the squirrel tribes if they've lost a kit, but none have claimed him yet," Juniper replied.

He had led Daskin to a merchant's cart, which was a place he was sure would pique the ferret's curiosity. He didn't seem one for sports, which was why they had not visited the archery range. No, Daskin seemed far more fascinated by books and board games. Juniper was sure that if the kit would be interested in anything, it would be in what the merchant had to offer.

"I think he might be some sort of weasel."

"I'm a ferret," Daskin said with a scowl.

"Tcha! You furred beaztz all look the zame, anyway."

"Mmm, I suppose so." Juniper eyed past the monitor lizard, taking note of Daskin rummaging through her things. The ferret pulled out an intricate board with pieces that resembled the ones he had played with Hector every night since he joined the troupe, while next to him was an arrangement of what appeared to be ridiculous-looking arrows, most likely used for props and flashy scenes.

Turning his attention back to the lizard, Juniper bowed low. "Whom may I have the pleasure of speaking to?"

The lizard returned the bow. "Vikraja!"

"A pretty name for a pretty lizard." Juniper flashed a smile before pointing to the arrows. "What are those?"

It was Vikraja's turn to flash a smile, which Juniper found to be downright frightening. Her teeth were very sharp.

"Thiz … iz my latezt invention. I call them, fireztickz!"

"Ahh," Juniper said, hiding the disappointment that they were not prop arrows like he had hoped. "How do they work?"

The lizard made a grandiose display of retrieving one, then presented it to Juniper like a newborn pup. "You put fire to the wick here—" she indicated the long string that hung from the bottom, "—and then you run away!" Her cackling was far more menacing than her smile.

"How ingenious!" Juniper exclaimed. They weren't what he had expected; as a matter of fact they were quite the opposite, but he was sure that Hector could find a use for them somehow. His mind worked to recollect the sequence of the scene. Greetings, bows, introducing the plot device, what was next?

The line flashed across his mind. "How much are you selling them for?"

"Oh, they are not for zale. Too dangerouz, too…" Her eyes shot back and forth, conscious of eavesdroppers. "Exziting."

Juniper blinked. Her response was unexpected, but he could work with it. The otter narrowed his eyes and gave them a few darts himself, then he leaned in, matching his voice to the lizard's pitch and pace. "Every merchant has her price."

A light jingling could be heard as the lizard looked down to the otter's side, his paw hefting a pouch tied to his belt. The lizard smiled again, her tongue flicking in and out. It was hard for Juniper to keep up the act, but he managed, if he didn't have to think about the teeth, or the tongue, or the low chuckling that coated the jingling like honey on a scone. 'Gates could he use a bite to eat, but not now. He couldn't afford to break character.

The lizard pulled herself back to her full height. "Ten piezez for one!"

Now they were back on track. "Ten!" Juniper said, aghast. "Can you guarantee they'll work?"

"Of courze! I made them myzelf, and you will not find a more perfect and prezize formula elzewhere." The lizard's eyes narrowed meaningfully. "You'll zee; each one will be more than worth itz prize. The fire in the zky, the trailing zmoke, the _boom_!" Her claws exploded with her voice. "It iz, ah … juzt realized now, zo there iz the potential for a dud every onze in a while, but know that you will be the firzt to ever uze zuch a marvelouz power. I guarantee an impact."

Juniper could not help but admire her talent. She was fantastic, and they weren't even following the scene to the letter. He hoped he could keep up.

"And if they don't," Juniper said, "where will I find you to get my money back? Too much of a risk, I think, to ask ten if I am unable to woo her."

The lizard's face twisted into a befuddled expression. "Eh?"

Despite the slip, Juniper pressed on. "Five pieces. I think it fair. They will work or not, so half the chance is half the price."

The lizard hissed and paused as she thought about the proposal.

Silence.

Juniper opened his mouth, preparing to feed her the line when Vikraja remembered it.

"Deal."

Her claws came out, which Juniper took despite the fur that rose on his hackles. Given all his reverence for her skill and ability, he could not quell the unease he felt around her. They shook.

"How many would you like?"

Juniper's mind searched for the best thing to say. "Whatever can fit in a small box, I'll take."

The lizard chortled as she retrieved a wooden box, stuffing four firesticks inside. While she was doing this, Daskin walked up to Juniper, presenting him the chess set he had been admiring. It wasn't part of the scene, but it did give Juniper an idea.

"Twenty gold piezez," the lizard proclaimed, presenting the box.

Juniper took an air of surprise. "Gold? I had agreed to copper! Five copper pieces per firestick, that was the agreement."

"That iz not true! I agreed to five gold piezez!"

"Was it? You had agreed to five pieces, which I took to mean five pieces of copper. So, as the customer, I think we will uphold my idea of the bargain."

The lizard sputtered, searching for the right line, until Juniper broke the flow and interrupted her.

"Tell you what: I will give you five pieces of silver, and we get the chess set as well." He held out his paw.

The lizard had gone dead quiet, her eyes narrowed and her teeth bared. Daskin pressed himself behind the otter's legs.

"Fine," she said, taking his paw.

Juniper smiled. "Excellent. Here you are, five pieces of silver—" he gave the lizard five pieces of silver, then took the wooden box, "—and we'll be on our way."

"What?" the lizard screeched. "Five piezez per fireztick!"

"Excuse me, the deal was five pieces, so I gave you five pieces. Are you calling me a cheat?"

"Yez!"

The otter pulled his whiskers forward in outrage as he prepared himself for the climax.

"Never in my days! The agreement was five pieces! Five pieces," he repeated, sweeping his arm out for dramatic flair. "I have never been so insulted in my life! Why, I have half a mind to put you out of business. Stand beside your cart and exclaim to all that you are a liar … and a cheat … and—and—and—" Juniper sputtered as he tried to extend the lines. Vikraja was taking too long; she should have interrupted him at "liar". "And a—a—a swind—"

"Zhh, zhh," Vikraja hissed at long last.

If Juniper could breathe a sigh of relief he would have, but that would have been out of character. Vikraja's eyes were darting all over the place, but Juniper knew better than to look. His tirade should have attracted quite a few eyes from the supporting cast, all disapproving as they watched the pair interact.

The lizard sighed. "Five piezez of zilver."

"Ahh! I thank you for your understanding, miss. You are kind and generous, and all shall know of your name as the finest merchant in the land."

"Juzt … juzt go."

The otter nodded, taking the firesticks in one arm and the chess set in another, and motioned Daskin to exit stage right towards the side of the courtyard where the troupe was located.

"How did you do that?" the ferret kit asked once they were out of earshot.

"Oh, that?" Juniper gave the widest smile he could manage. "That was a scene from _The Merchant of Noonvale_, where a swindler buys perfume said to woo his fair maiden. Vikraja was superb. I was surprised she knew it so well, and her skill! Amazing! I had a hard time keeping up."

Daskin thought about this, then shook his head. "That's not how _The Merchant of Noonvale_ goes."

"Well, Hector tweaked the script a little bit. Come to think of it, I wonder how she got a copy of his version." The otter shrugged. "Oh well. Come on, it's almost time for the play."


	11. Mighty Fine Shindig

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 10. Mighty Fine Shindig  
**

_by Fjord Hollyhocks  
_

_Crack! Snap!_

What sounded like a mouse squeaked in the audience as flames sprang to life above his head. Fjord grinned and pirouetted, the fire whip carving an ethereal serpent through the air. No lute for him to dance to this time, the hare stepped to the scrape and stamp of his own paws across the sandy stage – a rhythm Sylvi had taught him to see in the dust, a pattern set down that he need only follow.

_Shuuurr. Ksnk! Shurrshuuurr. Ksnk! Shurr. Snk!_

The fire dancer whirled again and cracked the whip above the heads of the spectators, briefly illuminating a young ferret in a ridiculous hat. The kit's head jerked up at the noise, then his large, dark eyes flashed to the performer. Fjord winked before losing sight of him as he swung the whip down, moving it from his left to his right paw and–

A pastry smacked squarely into the paw that had held the whip's handle not two seconds ago. Fjord nearly tripped over his own footpaws, the blaze whirling away into the night like some crazed firefly. In the light, he caught sight of a squirrelmaid just lowering her arms, a frown and the shadows obscuring whatever good features she might have had.

Before the badger-length coil of fire could drop straight down on his already-beleaguered ears, the dancer wrenched it hard to the side, a final _crack_ covering the worried whimper that slipped from his maw. He bowed, chest rising and falling more rapidly than it had in a good while as the audience clapped and began shuffling away.

"Oh, yes! Let's throw things at the chap who could burn the Abbey down," Fjord muttered, moisture returning to his dry mouth as he tucked the projectile into the pocket of his pants. "That seems like a jolly good idea. Top of the class, wot wot!" He stalked toward a bucket filled with water and rags, and used one to extinguish the prop.

_And where the dash is Mary?_ he wondered. _She received an invitation, surely._ And yet, since the beginning of the festivities, he'd seen neither nose nor scut of her. _She wouldn't just... because of me...?_

Somebeast tugged on his trousers, and he started. It was the ferret from the crowd.

"Are you all right?"

"W-wot's that, young sah?" The dancer let the surprise slide from his face and replaced it with a polite smile as he knelt to the ferret's level – the performance didn't end when the flames died down.

"You almost fell." The kit pointed to the whip. "At the end. You caught something and nearly fell. Are you all right? It looked like the fire was going to land on you. It... I thought..."

"You've a keen eye, sah." Leave it to the _kits_ to notice the little things. "Fjord Hollyhocks. And who might you be?"

"Silver." He touched his cap, then his small paw drifted to a bulge in his shirt pocket.

"Aren't you just? Well, I'm quite all right, Silver. Takes more than a scone to throw me off, eh?" He forced a chuckle. "Now if they'd hurled a great big tart at me – Apricot, mind you. I wouldn't settle for less. – _then_ we'd have all been a bit more trouble, wot!"

Silver twitched his whiskers back and forth, and Fjord had the creeping suspicion that he was being evaluated for some purpose. Then, the ferret shrugged. "Do beasts often throw things at you?"

"Not generally while I'm wielding a burning rope of death," the hare explained, raising the whip. "Still, some adoring ladies will toss me a flower or two every so often."

"That's not what I mean–"

"First time I've had food, though," Fjord continued, plowing through the kit's implication with practiced ease. "But! That's nothing for you to worry your fine hat about. Something else I can do for you? Why isn't a clever young chap like yourself watching the play on the main stage? Not that I mind, of course! Jolly good to see anybeast in the audience. Or... I say, are you lost? Looking for your mum?"

"Oh," he fumbled, reaching for the pocket again. "No, it's just... I've seen it a hundred times. And I wanted to get away from that mad otter. And in your show earlier th-there were green and pink flames on your batons. And it..." Silver stopped himself from babbling into oblivion. Then, he shook head, squared his shoulders and said, "I'm trying to find the Abbess."

"Hmm... and why would that be, sah? Something about wot you've got in there?" The fire dancer nodded at the bulge.

The kit's paws came up to block it from view, his expression souring. "What business is it of yours?"

"None wotsoever," the dancer admitted. "Can't blame a chap for being curious, though. Exercises the noggin, curiosity. Good to work the space between the ears along with the paws, eh? In any case, you're not likely to find her about tonight, Silver."

"What? Why not?"

The hare smirked and patted the kit's hat as he rose and moved off, coiling the smoking whip and attaching it to his belt. "Hold that question for about five seasons and I'll let you know, lad."

Hopping down from the stage, he let the crowd flow around him, a living river directed by the course of tables, chairs, and stages. Fjord stood on his tip-paws and spotted several promising brushes waving above everybeast's heads – the closest wiggling next to a table sporting a centerpiece of sugary yellow and orange daffodils fixed atop breaksticks. The fire dancer wove his way toward it.

O~O~O

"Pardon, is this your scone, miss?" Fjord asked, presenting the wayward pastry to the squirrel he thought he had sighted earlier. She wore a plain green tunic, a sling hanging from her belt.

She eyed him as if he were a particularly troublesome fly buzzing about her honey jar. "What if it is?"

"Oh, I was just going to compliment you on such a fantastic aim and the lovely snack! This landed squarely in my free paw as I was shifting my whip. I generally ask that all gifts be held until the end of my performance, but that was quite something. Gave me a bit of a scare, though, so I'd rather you not do that next time. Still, you have a talent, miss! And I shall covet this most scrumptious reward, wot!"

He tried to take a bite. She glared at him as he blinked in confusion. He tried to bite it again, working his jaw against the unyielding outer shell. Finally, after a solid fifteen seconds of gnawing, a too-large piece broke away in his mouth. "Mm... this's... raisin, right?" His molars screamed in protest as he ground down the edible projectile. "So... mmf... delicious." The hare managed to swallow the stale hunk of pastry and immediately grabbed a mug of cordial from a passing server, guzzling it. "Reminds me of my wife's bread." _And why I never let her near the oven._

"So, you liked it?" She cocked an eyebrow and bared her teeth in what might pass for a smile in some of the darker corners of Mossflower. Did squirrels usually do that?

_Dash unsettling, this gel._ The dancer gulped. "Y-yes?"

"Well, then, I would be terribly upset if you didn't eat all of these, as well. _Right now_." She produced half a dozen similar-looking scones from her pockets and passed them to him, leering expectantly.

"Er... Miss..."

"Aya."

"Ms. Aya, yes. Fjord. I-I simply can't accept such a generous gift, wot." He pawed the lot back to her.

"I insist, Fjord." She pushed them back his way. Still that smile.

"I hardly know you, miss!"

"We're all friends here."

"I would do the others a great disservice stealing away such a bounty from a beautiful and-and well-_toothed_ chappess as yourself."

"First come, first served is always my policy."

"I–"

"Fjord!" The hare whipped his head around, looking for the distraction. Abbess Dittany was waving to him.

"Oh! Wot a shame! Well, then... yes! Would you mind holding onto these for me for just two ticks, Ms. Aya?" He shoved them fully into her paws. "Such a fine and helpful lady. Never was there better. 'A and B the C of D', as they say in the Long Patrol, wot!" Before she could chuck another stone-scone at him, he dodged away.

O~O~O

"Ah! Mother Abbess, you're looking flushed. Finished with Cec already? Thought you scamps would be away the rest of the night."

"Keep your voice down, Mr. Hollyhocks!" she hissed.

Ignoring her tone, he cast a glance behind and saw Aya's heated gaze tracking his progress. Better the angry maid lacking in a sling and ammunition, then. "Anyway, you seem to want to chat. Shall we move? Quickly. Such a lovely night. Can't stand still for even a cricket's chirp, wot! And who would want to? Fantastic nonsense about to see, eh? Did you notice there's an otter in that vermin acting troupe? Queer, that!" All but pushing the Abbess along, the hare directed them toward the main Abbey building, whereupon the squirrel took charge and led them up the stairs toward the empty dormitories.

"All together, though, a smashing party, miss!" Fjord congratulated her as they stepped into a simple, but adequate room: a dresser, a bed, and a writing desk. The decadence of Redwall often obscured its more ascetic roots. A chill crept up the hare's spine, and he tried to shake it loose with a subtle shimmy. Something about the atmosphere demanded a sense of dread.

He pressed on cheerfully, "I haven't seen so many vermin and woodlanders gathered since the old guild held a festival down in Southsward a few seasons back. That was something to see, eh? But here! Oh, the food! I know Redwall's famous for its feasts, but you lot have really outdone yourselves, wot! Although, there was a rather strange squirrelmaid I just ran into. I think you might want to warn the entertainers about her scones. And there was this little ferret looking for you. Oh, and I wanted to ask if you'd seen Mary about. I thought she would be he–"

"When was th' last time you actually spoke t' your wife, Mr. Hollyhocks?" the Abbess interrupted.

The hare's eyes shot to the ground, and he raised a paw to rub at the back of his neck. "Well, I... I tried hopping along home about a week and a half ago. Ah... I'm afraid she was still a bit hot under the collar, wot. That's my Honeybunny, though. Hah!" He paused a moment to recall the encounter. She had been the picture of beauty – her speckled black and white fur aglow with the fires of passion as she chucked every plate in the house at him. "I do wonder what she's going to eat off of now..."

"_Focus_, Mr. Hollyhocks. I've a letter here from her addressed t' you," Dittany said, holding up an envelope.

Fjord's ears straightened. "Wot? R-really? Mary sent me a letter?" A grin spread across his face, but before he could take it, the Abbess stepped away and placed the envelope behind her back. The hare's brows knit together. "Bit strange, miss, you holding onto something meant for another chap. Well, _a_ chap. You're not 'another chap', of course!" He chuckled. "Bit hard on old Cec if you were, eh, wot?"

"Mr. Hollyhocks," the squirrel began, "I can't, in good conscience, just paw this over. You've been... Well, shall we say you've been _you_ as o' late."

_Wot's she on about, then?_

"I'm always me, miss. Tip of the ears to the fluff of my tail."

The Abbess sighed and rubbed her brow. "Let me remind you what you're like, then, Mr. Hollyhocks. Since you arrived here t' ask for our 'help,' you've done nothin' but get yourself int' trouble. First there was Ms. Rosemeade on th' pond-"

"She said she needed me to bait her hook – doesn't like to touch the worms, gentle gel. Oh, did you hear about the fish she caught? My Fates! That chappess knows how to work a pole! Give Skip a run for his rudder, I wouldn't wonder."

"-then Foremole Taupey catches you in the orchard with Ms. Helena-"

"She couldn't reach the higher branches. Asked me to give her a leg up."

"-_then_ Skipper had t' break up a fight on _your_ account between Ms. Rosemeade and Ms. Helena-"

"They did seem a mite heated, those two."

"-and just last Tuesday I saw you bringing flowers t' Ms. Branwen!"

"She's a _florist_! I was doing her a favor!"

"I can't give you this letter, Mr. Hollyhocks." Dittany shook her head, then looked up, a determined glare set on her features. "You haven't earned it."

The hare considered her, his smile fading faster than a spark set to wet wood. "Miss, I would be terribly aggrieved if some quarrel came between us. Cecil's rather fond of you, wot."

"My relationship with Mr. Sassafras is none o' your concern, Mr. Hollyhocks. You'll do well to keep your nose out of it."

"Indeed, we're in agreement on that matter, miss." The dancer nodded and took a step forward, his patience burning low and his hackles rising. "I would hope we'd be in similar agreement that _my_ relationship with my wife is none of _your_ concern."

The Abbess turned away from him, making toward the door. "I concern myself with all matters o' importance in my Abbey, Mr. Hollyhocks. An' on _this_ matter, it's time for you t' leave. I just wanted t' let you know that when you've proven yourself, I'll let you have th' letter. Think o' it... think o' it as incentive - something for you t' strive toward."

"Miss," he said, stalking over, placing his paw on the door above her head, and slamming it shut, "I'll have that letter from you. _Now_." She jerked on the handle, but the hare pressed his weight up against it. He held out his other paw. "I'd hate to have to take it from you, wot."

Dittany snorted, then replied with absolute certainty, "You wouldn't strike a lady, Firedancer."

"No, miss. No gentlebeast worth his whiskers would, wot!" Quick as a wink, he twirled around her, plucking the envelope from her grasp, and holding it out of her reach, above his head. "On the other paw, snatching what's mine from a vitriolic chappess who has my tail marked for cutting... _That_ I'm much less conflicted about."

"Why you–!" She launched herself at his sturdy frame with more force than he was expecting. Fjord nearly toppled over as she scrambled up his body, but managed to maintain his balance and flip the envelope to his other paw.

"Oof!" Dittany began pushing at him as Fjord did his best to protect the letter and avoid losing an eye. "Miss, that was my – Ack!" She tried to crawl over top of him, and he narrowly avoided cracking his skull on the bedpost as they fell backwards. "I'm _really_ not sure Cecil would approve of this, wot!" he cried, trying to shove the Abbess off as she groped at his paws.

_This isn't about the letter anymore,_ he realized. It was about getting it away from him. Baring his teeth and saying a silent apology to Cecil, Fjord grasped Dittany's shoulders and used his weight to roll them over so that he was straddling her middle.

"Get off o' me!" she snarled, then winced.

"As you like it, miss!" the hare rejoined, pinning her arms to keep her from scratching him. "But perhaps only once you've agreed to stop _hitting_ me. Gracious, but Cecil must be a thick-furred chap!" The squirrel quit struggling after a few seconds and glared up at him. "Better." Fjord released her and stood up, sliding back. "Now, I'm taking this," he informed her, holding up the letter. "And I'll thank you for its delivery... even if it was a bit of sport to get at it. I suppose every chap needs a good workout where a lovely lady is concerned. So, there we are. Good evening, miss."

"Stay away from Cecil." The command froze Fjord as he was turning and opening the door.

"Beg pardon?"

"As I said," Dittany repeated, "stay away from Cecil. It's bad enough you've been with him this long. But now... a self-important, long-eared _rabbit_ who can't even respect th' creatures tryin' t' help him has no business associatin' with decent beasts." Fjord pivoted slowly, a scowl crushing his features together, and found the squirrel standing not a baton's length behind, rubbing her chest with one paw.

"Cecil's my friend," the hare growled, feeling his cheeks redden at the insult. "That's even _less_ your bloody business than Mary, miss."

"You should stay away from Mary, as well," the Abbess added. "Save her the heartache an'–"

Before he could stop her, Dittany darted forward, grabbed the envelope from his paws, and scurried off down the corridor.

"–th' notion her husband's a gullible fool!"

"You little–!"


	12. Dee Ba Di Di Doh Doh, Dee Ba Diddy Doh!

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 11. Dee Ba Di Di Doh Doh, Dee Ba Diddy Doh!**

_by Monika Koval  
_

Pale moonlight glimmered on the worn stones of Great Hall, fractured into a thousand shades and shapes by the stained-glass windows. Flickering torch sconces stood sentinel, warding against the oppressive cloudy night. Monika Koval stood astride a faint blue crescent, crinkling her snout in annoyance.

_Well, doesn't that just take the biscuit. Nearly half a season I've been squeezed into this dowdy little habit thing, forced to live without my creams and powders because "it's just not done" for an Abbeymaid to go about looking beautiful. Only the Fates know what's become of my beauteous beauty since then._

She sighed winsomely. _Half a season up to my neck in dirty dishwater and greasy oatmeal pots, planning, plotting, waiting for the perfect opportunity, and now that I finally get a chance to claim my reward... this._

Monika Koval stared at the prize. It gleamed tantalizingly down at her from a pair of metal brackets, at least two-and-a-half Monikas from the floor. Totally out of reach. The golden hamster shook her head at It, half with disgust, half with embarrassment. She'd spent half a season staring in wonder at the thing, imagining how it would feel in her paw, how majestic it would feel to possess such a wondrous treasure. She'd figured out how to conceal it beneath a cloak, how to spirit the thing away under everybeast's nose, plotted out her escape route... And she'd never once thought about how to actually get the thing down. _Half a season since last I powdered._ Fate surely owed her some amends on this one.

The hamster scratched her nose pensively . _Right, well. I suppose I could drag one of the benches up from Cavern Hole_ – Oh! How the dreariness of that name made her shudder – _but they're so dreadfully heavy, and Fatty Friar Fooly-Face will probably catch me, and ask me just what it is I think I'm doing with that, and haul me back to the scullery. After all, there're bound to be scads of scummy dishes waiting to be scrubbed down, what with the feast going on..._

A young otter - one of the performers, judging by his outlandish garb - came bustling through the Great Hall, and Monika adopted a "never you mind me, I'm just standing here innocently staring at the floor" pose.

"Excuse me, miss."

"What?"

The otter looked sharply down his snout at her, and snorted. "Excuse me, miss," he said again, as though she hadn't heard him properly.

"Er... can... I help you?" Monika tried, her hackles rising.

The otter nodded crisply. "I'm famished. Where are the kitchens?"

"All of the food's being served outside."

"I don't care for that food. I want to eat from the kitchens. Where are they?"

Monika pointed. "They're... over... there?"

The surly otter brushed past her without even a hint of gratitude, and clomped briskly down the steps. Monika kept her gaze down, staring venomously at the stones until she was sure that he'd gone. _Stupid stuffed-shirt actor types, think that just because they can don costumes and prance around that they're gifts to us from the Fates._

Mentally spitting after the otter, Monika turned her attention back to the problem at paw. Her woefully-unpainted face creased with mental strain. The wall stones were too smooth for her to climb, and anyway there was that ruddy tapestry thing in the way. Monika glowered at Martin the Warrior's likeness. _Ruddy useless wall-carpet. Don't know why they're so proud of it. Sure, their precious Warrior drove away a bunch of vermin once-uponds-a-duck, but nowadays we're expected to get along with them, civil-like. Old-fashioned, that's what it is. Old-fashioned and useless._

Rope was another – and equally futile – possibility. Monika knew her way around knots well enough, but actually aiming to toss a loop around something like It was a field unto itself. Besides, It was sharp. It occurred to Monika that pulling sharp things downwards onto oneself was not a winning strategy.

She could try throwing things at It, to knock It off of the brackets, but the aforementioned lack of marksmanship came into play again, as did the risk of falling sharpness. Plus, It was probably heavy, and knocking it off would be too difficult.

There was nothing for it but to jump. Her outstretched paws swished uselessly through the air, several feet short of the prize.

_Curses. Curses upon curses._

The golden hamster stamped her footpaw angrily.

"Admiring the metalwork, eh?"

Monika turned to find herself looking at a grey-furred mouse. She couldn't recall his name. Probably Brother Something. They were all Brothers here, except for the ones that were Sisters.

"Oh, er, what?"

Brother Something smiled one of those patronizing smiles that old beasts smile at younger beasts when they believe themselves to be folksy and charming. "The sword."

"Oh, that," Monika stammered, contriving to pretend that she hadn't noticed the most legendary object in Mossflower's history.

The mouse crossed Great Hall with several long strides, and stared rapturously up at the weapon.

Monika stared at the mouse Brother's unguarded back. The hood would make a perfect pawstep... _I could jump on his back, push off from his head, and snatch it. Then I could be out the door before he gets his habit cord untangled, and –_

"Yessir," the Brother droned, "our Badger Lord has surely made a marvellous replica. One could almost believe that it's the genuine article."

Monika's eyelids squelched shut. "Replica?"

Brother Something chortled. "Oh, you couldn't tell? Well, I suppose you're relatively new to the Abbey, so you couldn't really be faulted for not knowing."

One eye stared balefully up at the ersatz sword. "So... that's not the real Sword of Martin?"

The chortling escalated in volume. "Oh, good grief, no!" Brother Something snorted, wiping a mirthful tear from behind his spectacles. "As much stock as the Abbess has put into this peace treaty, we can hardly expect that vermin will simply change their dastardly inclinations overnight, can we? After all, it would be foolish to expect that beasts who've spent their whole lives marauding and pillaging will suddenly cease to do so just because somebeast else has signed a piece of parchment, hmm?"

"Er... yes?" Monika guessed.

Brother Something's eyebrows did a jig. "What?"

"I mean... no."

"I should say not. Hence the replica. The Abbess wants the Sword to be displayed, as a gesture of trust. But, it'd be awfully embarrassing if the legendary Sword were to go missing on the night of the historic peace treaty, so we commissioned a replica from Lord Valetree. Purely precautionary, you see. Can't risk anything untoward happening tonight."

"Of course not."

Brother Something sighed, and scratched his whiskers thoughtfully. "You know," he mused, "I don't think they got the pommel stone right, come to think of it. The real one's a bit more vibrant in color, more like a strawberry. This one's a bit too deep."

Monika nodded, feigning disapproval. "Yeah. Say..." She coughed, and adopted a tone of innocence. "I've never actually seen the sword up close." She threw in a quick flutter of the eyelashes, for good measure.

"Mm, that's unfortunate. It's marvellous."

Grimacing, she tried again, ladling honey into her voice. "I'd really, really like to see it. Really."

"I'm afraid you're out of luck there, lass. The Abbess has taken it somewhere for safe-keeping. But I'm sure it will be back on display once things have calmed down a bit. But, I'm sure you'll have a chance to view it to your heart's content soon enough. After all, Martin's Sword has had a home at this Abbey for countless seasons. It's not going anywhere."

He patted her shoulder and smiled down at her again, in a disgustingly grandfatherly way. Monika plastered on one of her own, and kept it on until he vanished down the stairs.

_I wouldn't be too sure about that, Brother._

The hamster's claws wriggled absently as she tried to straighten things out in her head. _The sword in Great Hall is a fake. So, the Abbess must have stashed the real one away somewhere. _

But... where? Redwall was a staggeringly big place, with rooms and halls and shadowy crevices galore. She could have hidden it in the gatehouse, or the bell tower, or the cellars, or the kitchens, or the infirmary... Monika scratched her chin, trying to dredge up a plan from the murky depths of her confusion. _Anybeast could walk into the gatehouse or the cellars. I'd wager that Miss Abbess wouldn't take that chance, not if she's jittery enough to have a fake sword crafted. She'd have thought of a hiding place, well in advance. Somewhere she could keep an eye on it... _

"Hey! Hamster!"

Monika whirled.

Aya, easily Monika's least favorite among Redwall's bossyboots kitchen crew, came storming into the Great Hall. "We need more blasted soup out there."

"Oh," Monika said, without moving.

"...So go get some."

"What? Me?"

"Yes, you, Miss Prissy Paws. Go get another cauldron of shrimp and hotroot from Cedric."

"But I can't lift a whole cauldron by myself!" Monika protested. She probably couldn't even have hefted an empty one. The things were practically large enough to _bathe_ in.

"Fine," Aya snapped. "I'll help you."

Casting a whistful glance at the Sword that wasn't, Monika scurried after Aya. The squirrel practically dragged her down to the kitchens, where the unlikely duo was presented with a monolithic vessel of soup.

"Grab it," the squirrel huffed. "No, not like that. Underneath, here, so it doesn't tip."

Monika's paws scrabbled for purchase on the smooth tureen. The ruddy thing was heavy, and hot, and it kept slipping. After several attempts to lift it, punctuated by several totally-uncalled-for outbursts (ridiculous things like, "Are you even pulling?" and "Ouch! You splashed some of that blasted stuff on my paw!") from Aya, Monika briefly considered giving the tureen a shove, and just letting the stupid clunky thing spill its stupid self all over the place. For that matter, she wouldn't mind giving Aya a shove, either. _It would give me a nice headstart, if nothing else..._

"Can't we just call in one of the otters to lift it?" Monika whined. _After all, they're the ones who love stupid soup so much._

A bead of spice-induced sweat rolled off of Aya's nose, and marginally increased the soup's salinity. "Fine. Why don't you just go get an otter to help us, then, if you're too weak?"

"I'm not too weak," Monika announced haughtily. _I'm just not terribly skilled at hauling great whanging cauldrons about, thank you very much. Stupid fluffytail squirrel, bossing me about like I'm nothing better then a common kitchen wretch. I'm going to go watch the firedancing show, and just let's see how Aya fares hauling the soup about by herself, without the demure and charming Monika Koval to boss about. She'll wish she was nicer to me, when I get that legendary sword. If she gives me any guff, I'll chop her tail off and make her make a soup out of it, and haul that up the stupid stairs, all by herself. And make her eat it, too, with lots of hotroot pepper._

"Blast Dittany and her food orders," the squirrel groused. "She's not even _here_. Some leader. Wants us to cook up a feast for untold scores of beasts, and then disappears to go do who knows what. Probably locked in her chambers, doing 'important' Abbey business, or some tripe."

_Locked in her chambers, eh?_ Monika's eyes glinted. _I wonder what else might be there..._

She strained at the cauldron handle with renewed vigor. _After all, one can't keep one's destiny waiting on account of soup..._


	13. Let Me Get What I Want

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 12. Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want  
**

_by Vikraja  
_

_In the name of every mizerable, wretched creature, where did I put that… oh, there it iz._

Vikraja flicked her tongue in acknowledgement of the bottle in her claws. _I knew it waz there, of courze._

It was entirely too noisy, she'd decided. The monitor was weary from forced pleasantries and peddling all day, and she wasn't particularly fond of the constant ogling, either. Never would Vikraja have thought she'd ever miss her homeland, but as the irritating tapping against her skull gradually evolved into a carnivorous plant of pain, she longed to curl up in her room and never have to deal with another creature ever again.

The lizard's tongue bolted out, lapping up the contents of the bottle. _At leazt they've got dezent damzon wine._ She set the bottle down with a sudden hiss and clutched her stomach.

Vikraja hadn't tasted decent food in ages. She tried her claw at hunting down a few woodpigeons, but the sooner she forgot about _that_ incident, the better. The best she'd managed was an egg. It was outrageous, she thought; a master craftsbeast reduced to stealing from birds. And she'd heard nothing but crowing about the richness of Redwall Abbey's feasts ever since she'd arrived. But this…

The monitor considered herself a connoisseur of food as well as cloth. She had sampled sand spider spinnerets and roasted scorpion tails and sipped fiery hot hyzzk'et brandy. But this was simply appalling. Everything was so sweet it sickened the lizard, and aside from one measly fish, there was a disturbing lack of meat. She had heard several other beasts complaining about it, at least. _What were they called? Vermin._

"Hey! Missa lizy!"

The monitor flicked her tail away reflexively, narrowing her eyes at the ratling who'd approached her. "Go away, I'm not zelling anything now," she snarled. There wasn't any need to pretend at this point; it was unlikely he had any coins on him.

"Don't talka me like that!" He puffed out his chest. "I can beat you up. I'm not like odder rats. I bet I'm even in d'top ten strongest rats!"

"Indeed." Vikraja wondered if anybeast would even notice if the little morsel went missing. "Lizten, you're not getting your treatz before the otherz, zo come back later."

The rat trundled off, and the lizard's eyes flickered to her cart. "Kuuu…" Her tail weaved serpentine patterns along the ground. She wasn't obligated to be back for a while yet, and it wasn't as if beasts were lined up to buy things. And she was so very hungry…

Vikraja rummaged through her things, and after several attempts and hissed curses, she had wrangled a vast tarp over her cart. _Now ztay there._ Satisfied, she was about to slink off, when a niggling doubt dragged her back. Her eyes darted about. Was it normal for a merchant to just leave everything like this? She didn't imagine that they'd lug their every possession with them, but _her things!_ Somebeast would touch something or steal something or worse. A worried trill trickled out of her throat, and she paced, looking around desperately.

_Ah! Thank Peri'el._

Walking, or more likely stumbling, in her general direction was the dumb weasel she'd met while traveling. She was sure it was him; maybe she could even sell him another leaf.

Dragging the cart behind her, she approached the beast. "Hello, Dizeazel!"

He blinked incredulously at her. "What did you call me?" he asked.

Vikraja blinked back. He didn't sound anything like the weasel she'd met. She flicked her tongue, but any and all scent was drowned in a sea of alcohol. Perhaps, she thought, a deeper voice was just a normal side effect of drunkenness for furred beasts.

"Er, Dominik, whatever," she said with a wave of her claws. "Where iz the little one?"

The weasel's face twisted. "I don't know who you are, _madam_," he ground, "but I believe you're a little confused." He snorted. "Huh. Figures the only friend he can make is an overgrown toad in fancy clothes."

The monitor's claws twitched, but before she could strangle the creature, another weasel trotted toward the two. "Could you at least try to avoid getting into fights with everybeast?" she pleaded. "I'm sorry, Miss," she added, turning to Vikraja. "He's just—"

"This isn't any of your business, dear," the male snarled.

"Oh? What's that?"

The female, oblivious to the rage storming across the other weasel's face at having been ignored, crossed over to the cart. Peeking out from a tiny bit that remained uncovered was a cricket in a wicker cage. It chirruped at her and she giggled. "It's cute."

_It'z a znack._ "It iz a bringer of fortune." The lizard briefly wondered how much she could pawn it for, but decided that she'd need it in case she couldn't find anything else to eat.

"You aren't wasting my coin on a bug," the male barked. Vikraja's tail roiled; the more the weasel spoke, the more she wanted to rip his arms off and beat him with them.

"He iz not for zale," she said, shooting him a frigid glare. Turning to the female, she asked. "Excuze me, but do you know a Dominic?"

"I don't know where he is, but yes." She frowned. "The last I saw, he went inside the abbey."

The monitor dipped her head. "Much thankz." _Inzide. Away from these crazy beaztz. That weazel may be zmarter than I thought._

There weren't too many beasts near the abbey itself, so Vikraja decided that it would be safe to leave her cart just a short distance away, blanketed by shadows from the sandstone walls. It should be safe there, at least until she found something to eat.

The monitor hadn't even walked two tail lengths across the hall when she heard something disturbing behind her.

"Lizzy!"

The high-pitched shriek of an infant. She cringed; _Why me?_ Vikraja twisted her neck, but her ire faded somewhat when she saw it was the weasel kit from earlier.

"What'z wrong?" She asked. Taking great care to avoid dirtying her tail drape, she kneeled in front of the kit. "Are you lozt?" She wasn't even sure why she'd bothered. It wasn't as if that drooling _thing_ could even understand her.

"Oh! There you are, Ella!"

Vikraja started, craning her neck to see Dominic crawl out from under a tablecloth.

"You again!" the weasel said, somewhat breathless. His ears were flattened, almost directly against his skull. "Er, thanks for luring her out. For a moment I thought she might have gone outside again. Has she troubled you any?"

"No," the monitor said, realizing immediately after that she could have probably gotten him to buy something else had she said yes. "Do you know where to find any food?"

"Hrrmm... there was some set up outside." He glanced longingly toward the door and Vikraja narrowed her eyes.

"I'm not ztupid. And that'z not food," she said, giving her tail an irritable flick.

"Well," Dominic said, scooping up the kit. "I need to go. I don't know where you'd find meat. I thought I smelled some, but it's all gone if it was there at all. Just hard-boiled eggs. I think there's kitchens somewhere around here? Try there." His eyes darted around the room. "If they offer you medicine, don't take it!"

Vikraja nodded, unsatisfied, but knowing she'd probably get nothing better out of him. The door slammed so loudly that the monitor winced. She rubbed her scalp, glancing down the hall. "Okay… let'z zee what we can find."

~

_…and really. Green habits in a red sandstone building? Who could ever think that would look good._

The monitor paused, clicking her fangs thoughtfully before returning to her work, scrawling elegant silver-leaf ink across the heavy dark crimson pages.

_Anyway, at least I was able to find some decent food, and a quiet room. After all that noise, I wish I could just stay here. I'm not sure if all the sleeping quarters are this way, but the sheets are clean and the pillows soft, so at the very least it will better than having to sleep outside again._

The beasts can be described as thus: Loud, annoying, and stupid, so it's nice to see they aren't much different then what I'm used to. But I've been able to sell a few things, and have met with a few creatures who might not be so bad. I only hope that diseasel won't die before I leave.

Tonight I am unveiling my newest invention. I may need to make some adjustments based on the outcome, but it should work. I can't wait to see the looks on their faces when they see it. Will write more following the results. And if I survive giving out sweets to the kits.

The monitor closed her journal, drawing her claws lovingly across its snow-white fur-bound cover. She slipped it into a compartment of her carrying case attached to a silver chain which she slung into its usual position over her shoulder. Wiping her claws fastidiously on a kerchief, Vikraja gathered what leftovers she had and prepared to bid the safety and quiet adieu.

~

Sister Jolara, on cleaning duty for the guest rooms, was passing by the Abbess' room when the door swung open, giving her a start. The hare's eyes widened. Stepping out was a tall lizard, the skeletal remains of a fish head clasped in her claws.

The creature offered a reptilian smile. "Zorry, I waz juzt about to leave."

Sister Jolara stared. "Uh. Door's that way."

"Thankz! By the way, I hear harez are good eatz… juzt joking," she added as the hare brandished her broom. "But really. You don't have to ztare like that. Bye!"

The scraping slither of the monitor's tail dragging against the stone descended down the hall, leaving behind a very confused and disturbed hare still staring at the door.

~

Vikraja scowled. Of all the kits to come to her cart for cocoa, the only one she actually knew was nowhere to be seen. Maybe something _was_ seriously wrong with that weasel.

A small distance away, a stage had been set up, and the acting troupe were about to begin their show. Vikraja clenched her claws, her tail writhing fitfully; _Thiz iz it._ All of her work was about to pay off. All she had to do was sit back and watch.

The monitor found a small bowl, and spooned a bit of the cocoa inside. She didn't bother to cover the cart this time; it seemed most everybeast was crowded around the stage, and she'd be close enough to keep an eye on it.

Vikraja's tongue shot out, but it was a wrecked canvas of musky scents that greeted her, and she grimaced. Glancing around, she noticed two familiar weasels.

"Hullo Dizeazel," she said, weaving in between the crowd to get closer. "Are you feeling all right?"

"Well enough, I suppose," the weasel said, a little wistfully. He cut a chunk from the hard-boiled egg in his paw and offered it to the kit beside him, who chomped at it with vigor. Vikraja chuckled at the tiny creature's enthusiasm.

"Here, take thiz," she said, setting the bowl down on the grass. "I—"

A crashing voice resounded from the stage. "Ladies and Gentlebeasts! Please, gather around! The performance of a lifetime is about to begin! Performing for the first time—"

Vikraja tried to settle down, but her heart was wracked with a thrumming tremor; what if the actors didn't know what they were doing? Why should they? They were only trumped up street performers. She had to be there to oversee the execution, or else all her work would be for naught.

The monitor excused herself and slunk away, picking up a paper lantern from her cart on the way, and circled the area. _There!_ She could see her precious firesticks, three of them, staked into the ground. She nearly hissed aloud; a mole was about to put its grubby claws on her inventions! She loped toward him.

"Ztop!" she whispered, just loud enough so that he could hear. She threw herself bodily in front of the small creature, looming over him. "What are you doing? Who are you? It iz not time yet."

"Hurr, sorry ma'rm," he said. "I ain't one o' the crewbeasts. They'm arsked me ter help with overseein' t' these."

The monitor narrowed her eyes. "Have you ever worked with anything like thiz before?"

The mole scratched his head with his blunt claws. "Carn't say oi have, but oive'd 'elped Foremole with a lot of his diggin' inventions, so oi think—"

"Juzt ztop." Vikraja had only known this creature for five eyeblinks and yet knew she couldn't trust him at all. He couldn't even speak properly. "Lizten, you tell me when I need to zet theze off, and I'll do it, okay?"

The mole shrugged. "Foine with me, ma'rm."

For what seemed to be at least five eternities, the monitor paced, barely listening to the babbling of the actors on stage. When it became so excruciating that the monitor was certain she would catch fire, the mole waved a digging claw. "That's th'cue, burr 'aye."

Without hesitation, Vikraja introduced the fire from her lantern to the fuse, which it latched on to with greedy claws. In a hearbeat, the firestick shrieked into the sky to the accompaniment of gasps and cries from the audience. And then….

**_BA-BOOM!_**

A dazzling wave of sparks bloomed high overhead with the accompaniment of red smoke that plumed like dragon's breath. As the air filled with cheers and applause, Vikraja performed a dance of ecstasy. _Yez!_

Her eyes darted to the second fire stick. This one had to be even better.

She knelt beside it, eyes squinted as she re-positioned it. There was an annoying tapping on her shoulder, and she glared at the mole.

"What iz it?"

"Hurr, are you sure that's a good idea?"

"Of courze I am," the monitor snapped. "Thiz way it'll go off right over their headz." He blinked at her, and she hissed in exasperation; it was useless explaining. "Juzt truzt me."

"Well, if'n you say so."

Another moon-cycle of waiting, and the mole sent the signal. Vikraja lit the fuse and watched the firestick ascend. Up, up—

With an earsplitting screech, the firestick veered and careened into the abbey belltower like a meteor.

It was as if a giant had struck the building with a warhammer. There was a catastrophic booming bang, and the ancient sandstone crumbled in on itself. Intermingled with the writhing smoke were chunks of stone and bits of rubble that exploded outward, crashing to earth.

Everywhere was chaos. Beasts were screaming, running, crying. Vikraja was frozen. _That wazn't zuppozed to happen._

She turned on the mole, lifting him bodily. "Thiz iz all your fault! If you hadn't diztracted me—you—you…!"

Something struck her then, quite suddenly, and she threw the mole to the ground and fled. The monitor darted toward the abbey like a snake, just one thought in her panicked mind: She needed to hide. Twisting among the warm-blooded bodies around her, she hurtled inside the building, the one place everybeast was running away from.

She ran and ran, as far as she was able. All she could hear was the rushing of her blood and the condemning scrape of her claws against the stone.

All the strength left her legs and she buckled, sucking in ragged breaths and clutching at the ground. What if beasts died? She sobbed to nobeast and everybeast all at once.

The monitor's eyes opened to mere slits. Her claws had curled around something cold. A dagger.

She briefly considered stabbing herself with the blade, but it was useless. It already had blood on it.

She blinked as her mind caught up. "Oh. That can't be good."

The monitor managed to rise, standing on trembling footclaws. _Muzt clean it._ Dagger in her claws, she stumbled off down the hall.


	14. Cave In

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 13. Cave In  
**

_by Vitora  
_

A tankard with nothing but froth to show that it had once been filled with October ale perched on the table in front of Skipper. The otter had his paws behind his head, leaning back in his chair, and for the first time that night, his muscles were a step below tense.

Melian sat next to him on a bench, her chin in one paw, her other tracing dreamy patterns in the table as she kept her gaze on the show. Skipper leaned over and chuckled. "Watchin' that there otter lad?"

His daughter sat up abruptly, her eyes darting. "Don't be crazy, Da."

"Can't say 'e ain't a brawny lad," he said with a shrug. "But 'e does associate wi' those vermin types."

"It's a livin'," Melian said hotly, "an' if'n 'e can overcome wot ye couldn't, then good fer 'im." She swung her footpaws around and stood up from the bench, her paws clenched at her sides. "Ye know, if'n ye weren't my Da, I'd - "

He jerked his head towards the stage and she broke off, turning to watch Juniper - whose surly, nasty character had just picked a fight with one of the others - storm off the stage. Melian's lip quivered into a pout, and Skipper couldn't hide his chuckle.

"'e's just 'eadin' int' th' Abbey, Mel."

"Oh," she said, and the word did nothing to conceal her excitement. She started to walk towards the place where Juniper had vanished, but Skipper caught her arm.

"No, ye don't. If'n ye go after 'im now, 'e'll..." He fumbled for a reason.

His paw tightened on her arm, and she softened. "Break character?"

"Yeah. 'E'll break character." He nodded.

With a sigh, Melian sat back down. Skipper reached over and ruffled her headfur; she made a point to scoot ever so slightly away. He sighed.

They watched the play for a while, fireflies distracting Skipper from the rather dull monologues being traded between the two foxes. His gaze tracked one particular insect until it blinked out suddenly - almost too quickly, he thought, the fur rising on the back of his neck.

The first explosion danced to life overhead, and Skipper was all knotted muscle again, crouching over the table, half-risen from his seat. "Damn. What in the 'ellgates - "

But there was cheering, and so the otter chieftain stopped himself from springing across the grounds to where the smoke was curling into the sky. He finished standing and put his paw on Melian's shoulder. "Don't go over there," he said, giving her the Look. She stuck her tongue out at him, but it was a half-hearted gesture.

Then the belltower exploded.

Skipper had sensed it, and threw himself over his daughter, grunting as sharp debris pelted his fur. He rolled onto his back when he was sure the destructive rain was over, then bounded onto his feet. Pain and blood filled his movements, but he shook himself and ignored it.

His foremost thought was that it was a distraction. That something much worse was about to occur while the Abbeydwellers were occupied by keeping their home safe.

_Dittany._

With visions of her kidnapped or worse pounding a headache into his brain, Skipper dodged beasts fleeing the catastrophic scene. He looked upwards. Half the stones holding the belltower were gone, and the other half were spitting dried mortar at dangerous intervals. The otter ground his teeth; it wasn't going to hold.

He shot halfway up the nearest staircase and cupped his muzzle. "Get outside, all of ye! Th' tower!"

Panic erupted. Skipper swore and swung over the stairs, collapsing into a roll so that he popped upright at the footpaws of Lazuleep.

They stood, face to face, for a long moment, the otter's eyes narrowed, the rat's gaze steady.

Another explosion shook the ground, and they fell against one another, heads swiveling to find the source. Flames stretched towards the sky with giddy triumph, sheathing the main gates in fire. Screaming began anew, and a dark figure, indistinguishable through the shimmering of heat, ducked away from the gates and a discarded firestick.

Rage building inside him, Skipper let his pride collapse into a tiny lump, which he swallowed as he put a heavy paw on Lazuleep's shoulder. "We've got t' get them outside. Make sure whoe'er's doin' this can't keep it up."

The rat bowed slightly. "Go find Dittany." He turned, his tail giving Skipper a little push as he raised his voice. "Attention! Let's make this evacuation an orderly process, shall we?"

Some quality in Lazuleep's voice made the creatures nearby take dazed heads in paws and quiet down. Skipper nodded to himself. As much as leaving the Abbey's helpless in the paws of the Forerat galled him, he was satisfied for now. And now he had to find the Abbess.

Melian was up and shepherding mothers and little ones towards the east gate, but when her father caught her eye, she passed the task on to somebeast else and followed him out of the grounds.

They bolted together through the smoky darkness, giving each room they passed a cursory glance to be sure no one was trapped. Skipper shot his daughter a sidelong glance, concern forcing words against his teeth. Her headfur was mussed, and all but one petal was gone from the white flower he'd tied to her headband. She turned her head slightly, then, and he forced the words away. Her eyes were a warrior's. He had to be her equal, not her father, in that moment.

Then somebeast screamed.

"The Abbess! Oh, Fates, it's - " Whoever was speaking stopped using words and started spluttering out hiccups and sobs.

They rounded the corner to find themselves at the bottom of the dormitory stairs, where sticky blood was oozing into the cracks of the floor and a mousewife sat bawling next to a mangled body. A familiar face, twisted away from the body at a horrifying angle, stared blankly into the hazy moonlight streaming through stained glass windows.

"Dittany," Skipper said, and fell to all fours, mixing October ale with the blood.

He felt Melian's paw on his back, but it was a distant acknowledgment of a body that was feeling only grief and dread. He couldn't count the number of battles and skirmishes he'd seen on both paws, yet his stomach had never betrayed him. But staring at this - her neck broken, her skull split right between the ears, her internal organs peeking from torn fur in her side - he wanted to heave and heave until he'd turned himself inside out.

The otter started to retch again, but Melian put her paw under his chin and snapped his jaw shut. "Stoppit!" she cried, cuffing his ears. "Wether Rushtail, th' Abbey needs ye! Dittany's dead; she don't need ye right now."

Her voice was the rope he grasped to pull himself back into reality. "Mel. I'm sorry."

"Well, don't be," she said gruffly, pulling him to his footpaws. "I'm gonna 'elp Mrs. Churchmouse, an' ye need t' get this 'ere sorted out."

He saw that tears were sparkling in her eyes as she glanced at the body.

A lump formed in his own throat. "Ye're right."

"Course I am," Melian said, and pulled the weeping mousewife up. She gave the squirrel's corpse one last sad look. "See she gets more respect'n this."

-

He called together what leaders he could find, and they sat in a clearing outside the smoking Abbey, surrounded by a full otter guard. Lazuleep was the last to arrive; he was holding a sleeping shrewbabe on his shoulder. "Couldn't find his parents," he said by way of explanation, sweeping past Skipper to seat himself on the edge of the circle.

The otter grunted. "Arright, ye're all 'ere. Th' Abbess is dead."

He was satisfied by the wave of indignation that passed through the gathered creatures. Now that he'd numbed himself to Dittany's murder, he was analyzing the faces of each vermin leader, trying to find a telltale sign that would signal satisfaction, triumph, something he could pounce on to find the guilty party.

But, to his irritation, none of them were sufficiently smug. There was genuine horror on Lazuleep's mug, and Gurkin looked down at the paws that not a day before had grasped Dittany's in friendship with a look of growing anguish.

"Wot do we do?" the stoat asked. "If'n we 'ead out ourselves, we might be givin' th' murderer exactly wot 'e wants - an unguarded Redwall."

Skipper stroked his chin. "I ain't just lettin' 'im get away."

"Ah've got word from meh 'ogs," Corsenette spoke up, glowering at the warlords, "that a lot o' critters fled right after th' tower was 'it. May'aps one o' them did 'er in."

"Offer a reward," came the wildcat Liya's voice. They all swiveled to look at her, and she gestured towards the many creatures huddled a distance away. "Let the common folk pursue those that fled. Nothing motivates like the promise of money."

"Then we can stay here and investigate," Lazuleep added, shifting the shrewbabe to his other shoulder. "In case the murderer remained behind."

"'ow many ran?" Skipper asked.

Corsenette shrugged. "Ah 'ear tell a good dozen, may'aps as much as a score."

"Don't announce th' reward t' everybeast," Skipper said. "I'll go find a few wot seem trustworthy, send them out. Th' rest o' ye, start makin' a quiet perimeter around th' Abbey. If'n 'e's still 'ere, we'll find 'im." Liya's bells made an indignant sound. "Or 'er," he added from beneath a curled lip.

"And if not?" Lazuleep asked. "If the murderer's made it into Mossflower already?"

Skipper bared his teeth in a feral smile that had no joy or amusement. "Then we'll see wot those who know th' land can do t' 'im."


	15. Chasing Shirley

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 14. Chasing Shirley  
**

_by Juniper  
_

It was complete pandemonium.

Beasts were yelling, screaming, cursing, running, and Juniper had even spied a few fists flying in the crowd. However, despite the chaos that had wracked the grounds, the cart that housed Hector's Acting Troupe stood like a multicolored beacon in a frenzied storm. It was this beacon that was the only thing in Juniper's mind, the only place that could provide comfort and safety in the throes of such madness. Juniper dragged the hare behind him through the throng of beasts, the otter's firm grip on his newly acquired companion the only thing holding them together. Otherwise, Juniper was sure he would have been lost in the sea of confusion.

Amidst the screams and cries that tore the night asunder, a shrill shriek could be heard overhead. Everybeast around Juniper fell to the ground, so it was only natural that he followed the cue. A red firelight streaked above, filling his senses with the acrid scent of burning sulfur. If an otter's tail could bottle-brush, Juniper would have been sweeping chimneys.

It was bad enough that the belltower had been hit, something that Juniper had discovered upon exiting the Abbey with the hare in tow. The shrapnel had been far enough away that the damage was isolated, despite being attached to the massive building. Windows had been shattered, but at least the fires were already being contained. The path of this firestick, however, led straight to the gatehouse, a building composed primarily of wood. It erupted like a scorned shrew, and it was not long before the gatehouse was so mad it set fire to the main abbey gates in a fit of malevolence.

Choosing to abandon his sights from the scene of destruction and chaos, Juniper looked skyward, tracing the smoky trail all the way to its origin, where a dark figure fled the scene. It was hard to make out, seeming more like an apparition than anything else, but if Juniper could discern anything at all upon the nature of this mysterious creature, it was that it possessed a tail.

Juniper rose with a slight tremor. He never should have eaten so much food. The otter was having quite a time trying to soothe the urge to lose the contents of his stomach, negating the entire point of sneaking out between scenes in the first place. He dragged the hare towards the cart.

"June!" Hector cried once he came into their sights. He and three others of the troupe were gathered beneath the cart, and it was not long before Juniper and the hare joined them. "Where have you been?"

Juniper ignored the question for one of his own. "What happened?"

"Vikraja had a little trouble with her firesticks, I think." Hector frowned, and Juniper could guess why.

"Are we finishing the show?"

The fox scoffed, and Thera, the vixen, and Alastia, the female wildcat, looked at Juniper as though he were mad. Envie, the male stoat, started to hum.

"I should say not. We've lost our audience, as you can probably see."

Juniper frowned, his brow crinkling in disappointment and sorrow.

Hector pointed his head at the hare. "Who's your friend?"

"Fjord," Juniper replied.

"How peculiar. I seem to be in the company of vermin. Can't say I expected that, wot. Not that there's anything wrong with that, you understand, chaps. Just … queer, you see, a hare chumming with a lot of vermin."

Fjord's words earned a few glowers, but he seemed not to notice as he continued to mutter. Juniper wasn't sure how well-versed he was in the art of monologuing, but he didn't seem to be very good. He kept repeating the same things over and over.

"Hector."

The entire troupe turned their head at the fox's name. The pine marten twins stood together a little ways off, one in brown pants and a grey shirt, and the other in a brown shirt and grey pants. Both wore pointy green hats on their head. Aside from the alternating colors, it was akin to looking in a mirror, all the way down to the bottle-brushed tails. Hector excused himself and made his way towards the pair.

Thera and Alastia began conversing in hushed tones, and Envie continued to hum a nonsensical ditty, as he tended to do when left to his own devices. Juniper ignored them, turning his attention instead to the shaking hare, still muttering about vermin.

"They're not bad, really. I don't consider them vermin at all. Hector's very good at directing, and he's really nice, too. This is Thera, Alastia, and Envie." He indicated the vixen, the wildcat and the stoat each with a nod of his muzzle. "The pine marten twins are over there with Hector. That's Gergreg," he pointed to the one with brown pants and a grey shirt, "and that's Gergreg." He pointed to the one with grey pants and a brown shirt.

Fjord had a vacant expression on his face. "Gergreg and Gergreg? Strange, that. Not vermin either, eh? They look like vermin to me, wot. Hold on a moment now. You might be a vermin, wot with hanging about with these chaps. A vermin otter … I heard a story about a fellow like that."

Juniper's whiskers twitched in concern before his eyes lit up like the firesticks that had ruined the night.

He slapped the hare on his back. "I know!"

Fjord gagged and brought a paw to his mouth, then moved it to his nose. He grimaced. "I think I just threw up a bit. Dashed inconvenient. Do you know, I always seem to throw up carrots. Odd, that. I don't even eat that many carrots. Why would I? Not a blooming rabbit, wot!"

"You should join us! You dance, right? I saw you dancing earlier. You had a whip and it was on fire."

"June, dear," Thera interjected, stealing herself away from the conversation with Alastia to give Juniper a complacent look. "I don't think we need a dancer. We're quite fine on our own."

Nevertheless, the light in Juniper's eyes refused to die. It blazed as bright as the fires that now ravaged the gatehouse and had seized the abbey celebrations in an unrelenting stronghold. Also, he was excited.

"June," Hector called, beckoning for the otter. The fox had paled as best as a fox could pale covered in russet brown fur. The pine marten twins had stepped aside, their tails still thick as tree limbs.

"What's going on?" the otter said once he had made his way over.

"I have gotten word of a startling development that occurred while you were away. Do you know what happened in the abbey tonight?"

That line was so familiar. Juniper furrowed his brow in thought. It had been a long time since the troupe had done this one; the otter hadn't even been a true member, still pulling the stage cart as a slave. What was the line, what were the words? Juniper scrambled for purchase, trying to assess the lights and visions that danced across his mind's eye, but they were all too hazy and unclear.

He ran out of time. The most he could do was improvise.

Juniper adopted a look of nonchalance. "An' what business is it o' yours?"

It was the wrong thing to say.

"Drop it, Juniper," the fox snapped, pulling his lips back to bare his teeth.

The otter blanched. He couldn't remember the last time Hector had called him "Juniper", nor could he remember the last time he had been this angry. The fox had been in poor spirits ever since they arrived after he had dismissed the slaves at the gate, leaving Juniper and Gergreg to pull the cart the rest of the way inside. It wasn't often that the fox expressed distaste for something, and he had scowled the entire time.

Now all that ire seemed to be focused on Juniper. Hector's paws flexed, and his lips quivered with each breath. The otter withdrew into himself, his whiskers wilting and his ears flattening until they had disappeared completely.

"What happened in the Abbey?"

"I just got a bite to eat." Juniper's voice was timid and weak, not at all like the strong, brassy tone he had used earlier. He cast a forlorn glance toward the others, hoping that he could join them and be away from this interrogation.

"What else?" Hector's voice was still angry.

"I … I don't know. I, I got some food, and then—"

"And then what?"

Juniper cringed. He was being silly, he knew, but he couldn't stop himself. "And then—and then—"

"Spit it out, June! Something happened, didn't it?" Hector's voice was getting louder and harsher.

A mild discomfort began encroaching behind his eyes. Juniper fostered it, nurtured it, cultivated it, until his eyes burned. He glanced towards the cart. It was so far away.

His eyes swam.

Hector grumbled something fierce, taking hold of the otter and spinning him around. His grumbling became more defined.

It was disorienting, to say the least, and it did not help that Juniper wasn't anticipating the sudden change in direction. He blinked, releasing a single tear that slid down his face like a raindrop.

"Cut the theatrics, June! Let me see your paws."

Juniper blinked back the tears as he complied, but only ended up releasing more. Should he dab at his eyes with his hat? The otter floundered, not knowing what to do. He was reading this whole thing wrong and he could not figure out what Hector wanted from him. He cast another glance towards the group.

"Go. Get out of my sight."

Juniper nodded dumbly and stumbled away, making a bee-line for the cart. Not another tear was spilt, even when he had nestled himself beneath the vehicle to join the others. Then, he pulled the hat from his head and dried his eyes. Alastia had a wicked grin on her face, and Thera was shaking her head. Envie reached the end of his song.

"Hare, get over here," Juniper heard Hector say.

Fjord hesitated, but nevertheless crawled from beneath the cart to the fox.

"What happened tonight?"

"Got my letter, right here in my paw, wot. Oh, dear. I think I've gotten a spot of blood on it."

"Letter?"

"Addressed to me, sah. See? Right there on the front. Got my letter. Never a better letter."

Fjord brandished the letter, forcing Hector to take a step back before he grabbed it.

"Yessir, that letter there. 'S from Mary, it is. Wrote me a letter."

The fox hesitated, giving a good, long look at the hare before he ripped open the envelope.

"Now, I say, that's not very polite, is it, sah? Opening a letter wot's not addressed to you."

The fox's eyes scanned the parchment, focused on the hare, and then darted to the troupe. Hector stuffed the note back in the envelope and offered it to Fjord, who took it with a nod. Everybeast removed themselves from beneath the cart and gathered around. Juniper stayed.

"We're going to Salamandastron," Hector announced.

"Salamandastron?" asked Thera.

"Why there?" Alastia joined in.

"I hear hares are good eats," Envie said, not to be outdone.

Everyone leaned away from the stoat, except for Fjord, who took a step back, and Juniper, who decided it was time to drop the scolded pup act in favor of sheer curiosity. He crawled from the cart and joined the rest in their gathering.

Hector gave them all a knowing look, settling last on Juniper. "We leave immediately."

The reaction that produced would have made a tribe of quarreling shrews proud. The troupe all spoke at once, their voices creating such a clamor that it drowned out the forgotten turmoil all around them. Thera and Alastia demanded to know why, each talking over the other as they vocalized their complaints, and Envie just wanted to join in on the fun.

Hector ignored it all. "We need to go now."

It was all happening so fast. Juniper looked to each beast. Everyone was accounted for, except—

"Where's Daskin?"

"_Silver_," Hector snarled, "isn't here. We can't look for him now; we've run out of time. He's a big kit; he can take care of himself."

The otter's eyes went wide when he realized what Hector was saying. "What? No! We can't just leave him!"

"We can, and we will. Our priority is to the troupe." Hector gave Juniper a long and deep look. The otter shook his head.

"Hare," Hector said. Despite his close proximity to the group, Fjord stood alone, the letter still in his paws.

"Fjord," Hector tried.

He looked up at his name.

"You're coming with us."

Juniper interjected himself between pair and gave the fox a worried look. "What about Daskin?"

"We can't worry about him now, June. We need to leave."

"No, we don't! He has to be around here somewhere, we can't just—"

Juniper was shocked to find himself on the ground. The left side of his face had exploded in pain, and he winced as he brought a paw to his muzzle to make sure it had not fallen off. Once the pain had subdued to a vicious throbbing he withdrew his paw, and saw four lines of blood had been drawn across his face. He pushed himself off the ground.

"Get to the cart, June." He had never seen Hector so livid.

Without a word, Juniper went to the cart. Not to the front, but to the back. He lifted himself up and rested his body on the rail as he scrabbled inside, reaching for a quill pen and his unfinished script of _Chasing Shirley_—which he stuck in his mouth to free his paws for Daskin's new chess set. The otter dropped to the ground with all three items.

Hector stamped his way over. "What are you doing, June?"

Juniper looked at the fox. The tears were coming much easier now. "We need a plot device."

Hector hesitated, a confused look crossing his face. "What do you mean, 'a plot device'?"

"It's not supposed to happen like this!" Juniper was surprised to find himself yelling, but it was good effect, wasn't it? The otter wasn't sure. He wasn't putting much thought into this; it was all very impulsive, yet for some reason it upset him, even if it felt right. It was as though some unknown force was directing his words and actions, and he had no control.

"Like what?"

"The group doesn't separate individually! It's always in pairs, or something!"

The fox shook his head. "June."

"We need to leave a plot device." Juniper opened the script, flipped to a blank page, and tore it from the book. "Something he can find, to let him know where we're going, so he can catch up with us." He took the quill to the paper, but when he found it lacked ink, tossed it back in the cart with a frustrated noise and took to gnawing at his paw. He gasped as the skin broke. "That's how it works, right? We leave a plot device."

"No, June, that's not how it works. I won't have you leaving 'plot devices' for beasts to follow us! Get to the front of the cart!"

Ignoring the command and the subsequent kick to his flank, Juniper put his finger to the torn page and scrawled a note, then presented it to the fox, who could have made a very good villain with the way he scowled.

"Fine."

One slam and two clicks later, the note was nestled safe inside the chess set. Thera, Alastia, Envie and Fjord clambered inside the stage cart as Juniper went to the front and Hector the back, a pine marten joining each at their side. Now that the stage had been set, Juniper lifted his pole, prompted Gergreg to do the same, and proceeded to drag the cart into the fray, leaving the chess set behind them.


	16. Carving a Passage

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 15. Carving a Passage  
**

_by Dànaidh_

_The hot…it made him sweat…heat, flowing waves of heat that burned his arms and paws…_

He was on fire!

Dànaidh forced his eyes open and coughed. The Gatehouse was filled with smoke. It billowed and writhed and coiled in front of him, accented by occasional bright colored sparks that pulsed with concussive blasts, shaking his field of vision with every vivid, fantastic display. He was on his stomach, covered in debris and burning ash. He pushed up easily and sat on his knees, his head flopping back between his shoulders. He ached and bled in more places than he wanted to look. The coughs continued, and with every breath he inhaled, another bout of resistance fought its way up from his lungs. He strained against the dry, putrid air and continued to breathe, feeling the burning push against his lungs and the raw grating from the back of his throat. _Calm down!_ he told himself, _or you'll work yourself into a fit and won't be good for anything but fertilizer!_

The world sounded muffled. The odd sparks continued to blast about his field of vision. A burst of heat on his left side made him roll to his right, and he realized the ruins of the room he occupied were burning, and spreading. He stood up slowly, extending his paws for balance, and batted the soot and pebbles that coated his arms and shoulders, shaking his back to free the quills. He reached back and felt around the familiar turf of his spikes; some had been bent and broken in the beating, especially close to his skull. He straightened the ones he could and left the broken in their place; he'd shed them later. _What happened?_ he thought, as he looked around. It didn't matter…he needed to get out, quickly. He raised a paw to his lips and coughed again, his lungs continuing to burn with every breath. He waved through the smoke with his other paw, straining his eyes to see. The far wall he'd been facing was gone; in fact, most of the Gatehouse was gone or buried in rubble. He stood in a burned cove, staring out into the blackness of night. The brilliant colored flashes were coming from the Courtyard, and as he approached the crumpled remains of the wall, he heard the cries.

Most sounded painful—beasts burned or burning, hurt by whatever explosion rocked his room or bleeding from shrapnel. Some sounded angry—orders being barked and confirmed from different areas around him. Blended among these and the constant roar of consuming fire, Dànaidh thought he heard the sound of battle: steel on steel, wood on bone, flesh on flesh. He blinked quickly and wiped at his tear-stained eyes. _If only I could see what was happening!_ If battle had broken out, with so many woodlanders and vermin in one place… He turned his head quickly towards the Outer Wall. He had to escape; there was no other option. He pushed off through the burning clouds.

Flames from a dozen roaming fires leapt at his face and arms, and he raised his paws to shield his eyes as the heat intensified. The muffled roaring of the fire sounded like water thundering from a spigot, and Dànaidh tripped several times from dead or dying beasts littering the cobblestoned paths. Patches of nearby grass stood blackened or burning, occasionally stained with blood. Dark shadows of random mammals crossed in front of the tongues of flame, running through the smoke to aid in battle or carrying makeshift stretchers bearing injured friends. After nearly falling over a slain yellow mouse, Dànaidh paused and sniffed. The smoke nearby carried a different scent—a horrible, nagging, alien, _wretched_ smell that tore at his nostrils and slashed at his eyes. As his eyes began to swell, he noticed a particular green cloud mixing with the black and grey, snaking along the ground and up the walls. He reared back in fear, eyes desperately pouring tears down his cheeks as they threatened to close in inflammation. He knew what that cloud was: _Poison!_

He bent down to the body of the mouse and ripped at his garment, coming away with a large piece of cloth that he tied around his face below his eyes, pulling it tight against his mouth. He breathed deeply for a moment, satisfied that his mask could offer him some protection, and continued on towards the wall. He saw an overturned wheelbarrow and cleared it easily, ran through several burning shrubberies and suddenly saw something that caught his attention: the Abbey Pond. He darted over to the cool water, pulled down his mask and plunged his head into its soothing depths. The cold water reinvigorated and awoke Dànaidh, and he swallowed a refreshing mouthful as he broke the surface and shook his head free of the droplets. He wiped at his eyes and sighed as the pain slowly subsided, drenching his mask and wrenching it over his shoulders and quills. He snorted and dove into the pond, washing himself free of the grime, sweat and blood that caked his torso, bobbed for a moment and then vaulted himself free with a grab at the ledge. Some of his cuts had reopened, but the water did his spirit well, and he felt strong enough to break through a league of walls. He reapplied his mask and looked over his shoulder.

The squirrel leader of the abbey—_Your Grace_, the hares had called her—was sprinting across the lawn towards a short staircase leading to a landing covered with doors. _Damn her bucked teeth!_ Dànaidh thought. _I thought I took care of her already!_ He waved a plume of smoke away from his face and ran after her. She ducked into the third door on the landing as he snaked up the stairs two at a time, and he caught the door with a paw before she could close it, pushing her forward and stepping in behind her.

"Nae so fast, sweet'eart," he said. His eyes flashed rage in the firelight before he slammed the door shut behind him. "You su'prised me, lass, but ye won't run from me agin. Ye don't 'ave yer strong lads now. We'll see 'ow tough you _truly_ are."

A shriek pierced the darkness.

_(~#~)_

_"No, June, that's not how it works. I won't have you leaving 'plot devices' for beasts to follow us! Get to the front of the cart!"_

Dànaidh peered around the corner of the landing, searching for the source of the nearby shouts. He saw the western gate close by, alight with orange flame, and not too far off, a brightly-clad otter, a flamboyant looking fox and two dull-colored pine martens moving a large, similarly-colored cart, frantically trying to pull it across the path towards the gate. He shook his head and ran over to the group. The otter saw him coming and dropped the pole he was pulling, adopting a fighting stance; Dànaidh instinctively dropped into his own posture, and the two stared at each other.

"Back away, good hog!" the otter proclaimed. "You have no right to detain us!"

"I'm nae 'ere t' fight you," Dànaidh said. "Y'look like you're havin' some trouble."

A sparkle leapt in the otter's eyes. "Trouble?" The otter smirked. "Th' only thing akin t'trouble be a lone 'edgepig wot be thinkin' 'e c'n stop our flight from this 'ere place o' refuge."

"Shut up, June!" one of the pine martens said in exasperation. Hector hoisted the marten into the back of the cart, frowning at Dànaidh.

Dànaidh sighed, sizing up the otter. "Look, dae ye want help or nae, 'cause I don't have time f'yer airs." He bit his lip and mumbled, "Might chap you down for that smart comment, tae."

The otter narrowed his eyes. "Is all tha' blood yours?"

The hedgehog turned his paws over and grinned. "…Mebbe."

The otter lowered his paws and gestured to the cart. "Aye, ye be lookin' like a jack wot c'n pull a wee bonnie cart a fair ways, aye?"

Dànaidh considered the otter's question for a moment before nodding. "F'sure!" he said, clapping his paws once. He leapt over the pole attended by the pine marten and shoved him out of the way, hoisting it with ease and lifting the front of the cart. "Iffen you've git any sense, you'll hop in th' cart!" he called over his shoulder. "Otherwise you'll be bait fer th' flames afore ye reach th' gate. It micht git a wee tumbly." Hector nodded, helped the last marten into the cart, then climbed aboard and disappeared beneath the canopy. Dànaidh rolled his shoulder and smiled in relief when it popped. He turned to the otter. "'old yer breath if you see any green gas—it's poison! Now, let's 'oist this cart 'n' go!"

"Aye!" the otter said, lifting his pole. The two bent at the waist and pulled with their backs, and with a squeak the large red wheels turned and propelled the cart down the path, headed towards the burning exit. Dànaidh picked up his pace and noted with satisfaction that the otter kept up. They were moving swiftly, fast enough to break through the gate, when a mouse bearing a pike leapt into the path and swung his weapon about in front of them.

"Halt!" he called, glaring. "I—I can't let you leave!"

Dànaidh clutched at his pole and dug his footpaws into the soft earth, grimacing as his quills sank into the wood of the driver's box behind him. The otter slowed his advance as well.

"Guid brother!" The otter gestured broadly at the cart behind him. "Ye staun 'gainst us, I see. Shift aside fer oor sake, I command ye!"

The mouse gripped his pike tighter. "I will not! Stand down!"

"Sopping boireann," the otter muttered, bristling.

Dànaidh dropped his pole and sprinted toward the mouse, head lowered. The mouse blanched and half-heartedly thrust at the hedgehog. Dànaidh slid towards him, caught the pike in one paw and pulled it free of his grasp with the other. He swung the pike around in a wide arc and clapped the mouse under his chin, lifting him off his footpaws. The mouse collapsed on his back with a gasp, unmoving. Dànaidh knelt by the fallen mouse, made sure he was breathing, and patted his cheek with a grin as he hopped back to his footpaws.

The otter raised an eyebrow at Dànaidh, watching as he approached the cart again. "Fair sport o' knockin' th' wee one about, aye?" he said cheerily.

Dànaidh hefted the pole again. "Th' sap'll feel that t'morra. 'Tis 'is own penance, goin' up 'gainst me." He winked at the otter. "Are ye gonna lift f'me now, or am I gonna heft ye 'n' this cart o' me back 'cross th'bridge?"

They took off quickly, running directly at the gate. With a roar, they burst against the burning embers and ricocheted back, bruised and frustrated.

"Again!" Dànaidh cried, bending down to sprint again. The otter held a paw against the hedgehog's spiky shoulder, pulling back slightly as he did.

"We dinnae have enuf' room," the otter said. "We naid somethin' tae break th'gate daown."

Dànaidh moaned, dropped his pole and walked up to the gate. He carefully touched a section of it, feeling its temperature, and punched the same section. It broke easily against his paw. He nodded in approval, turning back to the otter.

"Back th' cart up!" he ordered. The otter nodded, pushing back against the cart as he hefted his pole. The cart wheeled back slowly until Dànaidh called out, "Good!"

"What're ye plannin'?" the otter called. He glanced over his shoulder at the sound of approaching shouts. "Th'enemy be forthcomin'!"

"When I tell ye tae, I want ye tae shove me as _hard_ as ye kin, right? Then heft tha' thing like yer lovely's knicks, 'n' I'll join ye at th' gate."

The otter raised his eyebrows in confusion. "Wha—?"

"Believe me," Dànaidh said, looking into his eyes. "'n' I'll git us oot o' 'ere, alive."

The otter sighed. "Aye, 'edgepig."

Dànaidh nodded, turning and cracking his neck from side to side. He swung both arms and let them go loose at his sides. "A'right, backswimmer. Give us a push!"

The otter grinned darkly, reared back and shoved Dànaidh at his shoulders, throwing the lithe hedgehog into a back-flip. In mid-spin he extended himself, then tucked his knees into his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs before he struck the path, flexing into a quill ball that rolled and gained momentum with each bounce. His eyes became slits, watching the world tumble, paying attention to the burning gate that grew closer, closer, _closer—_

He struck the gate with a smash and broke through its burning embers, causing the framework to collapse against itself and fall to the earth. Dànaidh stopped on his back in a cloud of ash and dust, breathing deeply as he stared at the glowing hinges on the wall, the only things remaining of the gate that had stood there for countless seasons. As he exhaled and smiled, the otter nearly ran him over with a yell and Dànaidh quickly rolled to his left as the cart passed over the top of him, its passengers screaming and swearing at the otter. The otter continued to run and yell, until his footpaws left the path. He stopped his yelling as he felt the front of the cart continue to raise, his footpaws pedaling in the air. He turned his head toward the back of the cart.

Dànaidh was pushing down from behind the cart, awash in the screams and profanity of the jumbled troupe. Their sundry mass added the needed ballast for Dànaidh to shove the mighty cart across the path, and he winked at the otter beneath a crown of sweat as he lessened his pressure, his sinewy muscles relaxing across the length of his arms and shoulders, allowing the otter's footpaws to return to the exterior path. They were starting over the bridge now, and Dànaidh noticed the bridge was aflame as well.

"Watch yer footpaws!" he yelled as they crossed the center of the bridge. "Th' bridge is oan fire 'n' might—"

The bridge collapsed in a shower of embers and burning stones. Dànaidh found himself tumbling through open air and into the muddy stream below. He sank into the murky water and pushed off the soft, shallow bottom, breaking the surface with a gasp for air. He saw a pair of paws descend and he reached for them; Hector and Juniper quickly pulled Dànaidh to safety.

The three stood at the path just beyond the edge of the bridge, exhaling hard in exhaustion, staring up at the plumes of smoke lazily snaking out of the abbey while the pine martens stayed near the cart, consoling the shaken troupe within. They were covered in soot and ash, blood and sweat; tears from smoke and shock stained their cheeks. They stood silent and unmoving, blackness against the dying night of tragedy that would soon be replaced by a burning dawn's sun. Slowly they went back to the cart, Dànaidh and Juniper resuming their spots at the front, Hector adding support from behind, and began their journey away from the ruins.

They entered in peace; they left in violence. They entered as heroes; they left as villains. They came in laughter of life; they left in the silence of death. They entered in revelry as the sun set; the left in mourning as the sun rose. In both entering and leaving they were wanted, but welcome gave way to contempt. They were friends…now they are enemies.


	17. To Bid You Farewell

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 16. To Bid You Farewell  
**

_by Dominic_

Dominic nibbled at his egg.

Red dust covered the weasel's face. Blood trickled down his neck from where a stray chip of stone had struck him behind the ear. A chunk of stone twice his size lay behind him, having crushed the chair he'd been sitting in moments ago. Somebeast grabbed his arms and led him away. He allowed himself to be moved, unruffled.

All around him, beasts were screaming and crying, barking orders and whispering prayers. It was all just noise. Creatures of all sorts, vermin and woodlander alike, were picking through the rubble to rescue those trapped underneath. Most of them dead. The rest of them, dying.

He chewed his egg slowly, watching.

They pulled a squirrel out of the ruins. He had a splinter of wood from a shattered crossbeam sticking straight through his stomach. But the squirrel's face was calm, and he did not cry out. Neither was he dead. He raised a paw to the face of the beast that had pulled him out, smiling. Then the paw dropped.

Shock, Dominic thought. That was it. He'd seen it before, when a cocky ferret had tried to spin a sword around inside Walkin's tavern and cut the better half of his own footpaw off when he dropped it. It had taken the poor fellow half a minute to realize what had happened. It had taken Dominic half an hour to mop up the mess.

He stared up at the remains of the bell tower. The bells themselves had long since gone from their lofty prison, lay cracked atop the hills of mortar. Spires of shattered wood rose like canines to suckle the yolk from the moon.

Dominic finished off his egg and wiped his paws on the sides of his tunic.

Then his brain caught up with the rest of the world.

All at once the weasel was in the thick of things, throwing aside smashed bricks and hauling beams of wood off the piles. He wasted no breath to shout her name. It would just be lost in the noise. He wormed into cracks, sliding onto his back to push aside chunks of roof with his footpaws. Something came loose and slid towards him. An otter leapt in front of it at the last moment, catching it. She grunted as it almost bent her in half. A rat helped her slide it away.

Dominic gave little thought to these incidents.

-

_"Lily, I'm home! Did you miss me? I found the herbs you wanted at Sparkwood. And I've got a surprise for you!"_

The little cottage was quiet. It was likely they'd gone to sleep. Dominic lit a lamp and carried it to the bedroom. The door was closed, so he knocked.

"Lily? Can I come in?" She must have been sleeping. The midwife, too. He could not hear the rocking chair creaking.

Pushing the door open, he slipped into the room. He held his paw out in front of the lamp, the gold ring glittering. He tip-pawed to the bedside.

"Lily, wake up... look what I've got! Now we can get..."

The lump on the bed was just some stained sheets crumpled up. He stood up and looked around, frowning. He held the lamp high to see better.

There were flowers on the floor, lying scattered around pieces of the vase he'd bought for her. He'd kept his savings in the bottom of it. All gone.

He went back into the main room, heart thumping. Everything of Lily's was gone from the cottage. Many things that hadn't been Lily's were gone as well.

Dominic ran, shouting, to the neighbor's house, leaping the fence to batter at the door. The old rat poked his head out the window, nightcap over one eye.

"Lily! Have you seen Lily?"

"Eh? Oh, aye. Seen her pushin' a wheelbarrow down th' lane. What a ruckus!"

"When, where? When did she go?"

"'Bout three, four hours ago, 'round sunset? Yer midwife left this mornin'."

Dominic bolted to the town's outskirts. How had he missed her? She must have been heading down the road to the south.

At first his thoughts worried. How was she faring? Should she be moving about in her condition? Had she gone to see him, but maybe gone the wrong way? Two days! She must have missed him terribly.

But as he ran, they grew darker, more bitter. She's gone! Took his savings, took his rain boots, took his best cooking pot. She sent him away! Herbs to help when the kit came? What a scam! What a joke! And he'd gone and wasted another half day and all the rest of his money getting this stupid ring forged... Why wouldn't_ she leave him? He was seven years too young for her, could barely hold down a job for more than a month! Living off his brother's scraps in his wife's old cottage! Marriage? Of course she'd leave him if he'd been serious about that!_

What he didn't understand, could not understand, as he sat there in the grass at the side of the road, holding the little pink bundle to his chest while he stared at the moon rising over the road in the south, was how she could leave her.

-

Dominic sat against a post holding up the stage. Somebeast had given him a cup of water. It lay empty in the grass beside him.

He clutched the crumpled mullein leaf so tightly that his paws were white. The overpowering smell of Jasmine Allure No. 9 tore at his sinuses. The leaf was clean apart from the perfume, but that was no comfort. It just meant wherever she was, she was an accident waiting to happen. He hoped.

Accidents involving Ella were, so far in his life, the best kind.

There was a line of bodies arranged in the grass. Dominic walked between them, looking at their faces. Nobeast had gotten around to putting sheets over them yet. Others like him stood between the lines, staring blankly or crying. There were only two bodies that could have been Ella by their size. One was a mouse. One was a squirrel. There was nobeast around to mourn these two. Dominic wandered on past them.

Straight ahead of his meandering path was a covered wagon. Dominic hissed at it. The merchant lizard! She'd been crowing about how great those fire sticks were. If he could find her now, he would show her just what he thought about them. He had half a mind to relieve himself on the wagon and her wares, right then and there.

That was just grief talking. He tugged at his ears. Ella was alive! Ella was still alive, just lost in the crowd. She hadn't been anywhere near the collapsing bell tower. She'd gotten away from him a third time, while he watched the play. She was with the other evacuees. She wasn't among the dead.

The dead! But where had they been dragging off the wounded? The infirmary!

At the entrance to the main abbey building, he spotted her. Just a glimpse of chestnut fur and yellow dress, being alternatively tugged and hauled along by a small silver-furred ferret in a feathered cap.

"Ella!" he shouted, pushing forward through the milling rescue parties. By the time he got to the door, they were both gone inside.

The hallways were even more crowded. Nobeast paid attention to him. He tapped a portly male mouse on the shoulder.

"Sir, have you seen a little weasel in a yellow dress? She was just through here!"

"And why should I tell you! Some peace this is! Lousy vermin!" The mouse harrumphed and squeezed through the crowd away from Dominic. He tried a kinder-looking molewife.

"I'm looking for my daughter! She's this tall, has a yellow dress! I've lost her!"

"Oi be gurtly sorry fur yurr loss!" The mole only glanced up at him briefly before turning back to bandaging a shrew's head. The shrew touched his nose, nodding at Dominic.

"You've got somethin'... dripping..."

"Tchk," the weasel hissed, moving on down the line. He had no time for bleeding noses! He paused and rubbed his nose on his sleeve. No blood, just mucus drip. Small victories. Inconsequential.

He resigned himself to checking all the rooms. Linen closet. Dormitory. Dormitory. Privy. "Sorry, ma'am." Well, she should have locked it. Aha! Infirmary! It was full. _Eeeugh_. But there in the center aisle of beds was the ferret, just a young lad. And there was Ella, in the arms of the infirmary sister.

"Ella!" Dominic cried, surging towards them. His rage at the mouse holding her tussled with his relief, and lost. Ella's head wobbled around slowly, her little paws waving. Dominic's face broke out in a sudden case of smiles. Ella was staring at the candelabra over his left shoulder. Dominic didn't care she didn't see him at first. She'd heard him, and she was safe.

And there would be no more of this. No more deliveries out of town, no more taking strange medicines, even if they were concocted in Mossflower's most prestigious infirmary. No more snooping about looking for a good time and free food before even thinking about renting a room for the night. No more staying for the spectacle and letting his attention wander.

Ella's gaze focused on him, and she began to squirm out of Sister Summers' paws. The mouse, distracted, frowned about until she spotted Dominic. He held his paws up to take Ella (her dress was torn! She was covered in dust!) from her when-

"That's _him_!" Sister Summers shrieked, pointing and leaping back. Dominic's pace slowed. The rage and fear in the old mouse's voice was not what he was expecting. An otter's paw clamped around his arm. A hotroot-steamed muzzle brushed his ear.

"You again?"

"I, um, what, but," Dominic spluttered. His footpaws left the ground as the otter lifted him again.

"He's the one!" Summers went on. "He was saying all these horrible things! Then he escaped and he killed her!"

"I what?" Had he? "Who?"

"Let me deal with this, Sister," the otter said, his deep voice gravel-grim. And before Dominic could blink, the infirmary was whisked out of view. The hallway turned into stairs as he was taken down a floor.

"Hey! But, my daughter! Let me go!"

"She'll be taken care of, don't ye worry," the otter said. "Murderer or not, weasel, it'd be irresponsible o' us t' let somebeast yer age be in charge o' a kit!"

Dominic could no longer stand this. He did what any weasel would do. He _writhed_.

His footpaws clawed for purchase on the otter's clothing, though his arms were held firm. He managed to snake his neck out and bite at the otter's throat. With a roar, the otter released Dominic's arms to pry his jaws off. Dominic spat and snarled, pushing off. His back hit the floor with a whump that left him breathless. He twisted around and dug his claws into the stone, skittering away. Something caught at his tunic, tearing it at the shoulder.

"Heeeeeelp! He's trying to _kill me_!"

"I am _not_, ye lunatic wea-urng!"

Dominic kicked out, catching the otter's chin. Up ahead, a door was opening. A green-scaled head poked out, glancing up the hall, then down the other way. Vikraja's eyes widened.

"Dizeazel!"

"Help! Help me, they've taken Ella and they're going to murder me!"

The lizard's tongue flicked out, and then, blessing of blessings, she reached out and hurled a knife in his direction. Dominic fought the instinct to try to catch it. He remembered the ferret from the tavern months ago. And she'd probably meant to slay the otter! But... Dominic winced as the blade arced lazily, pinging off the wall beside him.

"Well, Zmozh," Vikraja said, slamming the door and bolting it behind her.

Dominic had just a second to grab the fallen knife before the otter was upon him again. His paw wrapped around the hilt just as the otter's paw wrapped around his wrist, slamming the knife out of his grasp. Dominic reached out with his other paw. Another squirm, another twist, a thrust and then another and _another_-

He squirmed out from under the otter, rasping. Now his chest really burned. This, he at last accepted, was not from his illness. He stood with a groan. This was the good kind of pain. Meant he was still alive, against the odds.

He supposed that was what pain meant anyways.

"Hahh... hahh... take that! You stupid... hahh... mangy beast..." He kicked out at the otter's limp head, accidentally smearing drool on his footpaw. He wiped it off with the otter's tunic.

Dominic lifted his gaze. At least twenty beasts spread out along the corridor stared back.

He dropped the knife, and then realized this was a very stupid thing to have done.

He couldn't remember running so fast in his life. Down the stairs, through the Great Hall, across the lawns, spinning his way past the guards at the main gate! Their shouts faded as the outer city's streets welcomed him into their labyrinthine silence. He stopped but once, to dip his head into a barrel of rainwater.

In the countryside, he collapsed. He buried his muzzle in the dirt and screamed, but it was just a wheeze. He rolled onto his back and stared at the stars.

For a while, all he could do was breathe, and spit whenever his mouth filled with saliva. Eventually thought came back into his head.

Here he was again, stricken in the grass by the side of the road. Evening dew seeped into his fur. He'd lost another one, with little to no hope of reclaiming her in his present condition. His reputation in tatters, his savings gone, lost somewhere in the chase. Why did these things keep happening to him?

Maybe the otter had been right. He was too young. Ella needed someone older. Well, he knew that! He'd been _trying_...

She needed a weasel. That was proper. She needed a mother. What good was a father? Darron had turned out alright without one. He had Faye, now. He had a good job. He had money, and charm enough for strangers. And at least Darron had a mother. All Dominic had had was... Darron.

Blast, his nose was running. At least it wasn't blood this time.

Dominic got up and began trudging, heading south.

Ella needed more than what he could give her, and he knew she wouldn't get it at Redwall. But there was nothing he could do about it anymore. If illness didn't claim him soon, there were at least twenty eye-witnesses who would gladly take on the task. He was a dead weasel.

He should let Faye know.


	18. Get Your Hands Off My Woman

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

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**Chapter 17. Get Your Hands Off My Woman  
**

_by Faye_

In Faye's shack, all was quiet.

The kitchen lay in darkness; Faye could just make out the shapes of the furniture through the open bedroom door as she tried to sleep. Beside her, Darron was snoring gently. Her mind kept wandering over the events of that night, and over and over again she thought of the five little stones. Without even realising, she let out a soft whimper.

As she lay there, Faye suddenly thought she heard a tapping on the front door to the shack. Slowly she lifted her head to see if she was imagining things. There it was again! Carefully, so as not to wake Darron, Faye climbed out of bed, pulled on her dress over her nightgown and crept towards the door.

It didn't sound like a marauding gang of vicious criminals outside, so Faye gently opened the door a crack and peered out.

"Dominic?"

"Faye! You have to help me! Can, can I come in? Darron's not awake, is he?"

Dominic's voice was hushed and urgent. He looked like he'd been through the wars. As quietly as she could, Faye opened the door and let the panting weasel in.

"Dom, what on earth happened to you?" she suddenly realised he was alone. "And where's Ella?"

Her friend sat down heavily on one of the kitchen chairs. "She's... She's with _them_. At Redwall. The Abbeybeasts took her!"

Faye pulled up a chair next to Dom and placed a paw on his shoulder. "What do you mean?"

"Vikraja's firesticks! They destroyed the bell tower at Redwall! It was a mess... and then someone dragged Ella into the infirmary! They wouldn't let me have her! And this otter grabbed me, he was going to kill me, and we fought, and... and then…" he tailed off, his eyes starting to well up.

Faye's heart broke at the sight. Leaning closer, she embraced Dominic as the full horror of what had happened seemed finally to dawn on him all at once and he broke down into frantic sobs.

"They took her! They took her and they won't give her back! I can't go back..."

"Hush now Dom, it'll be all right," she murmured, cradling the young weasel. "I'll go right over there and make sure she's all right. I'll bring her back to you, you'll see."

Dominic looked up at her, his eyes brimming with tears. For a moment the two weasels just gazed at each other, before Faye leaned in and gave him a gentle kiss on the forehead.

"You stay here and get some rest. I'll be back with Ella before you know it."

Dominic sniffed loudly. "Th-thank you F-Faye," he gasped between sobs. "She m-means th-the world to me."

Faye gave his paw a reassuring squeeze. "Just you wait, I'll have her here in no time." She rummaged around in her dress pocket and produced a small pawkerchief. "Dry your eyes with this, and I'll see you soon."

~

The sun was starting to stream into the kitchen as Dom was suddenly and rudely awakened from his sleep.

"YOU?"

Dominic looked up bleary eyed to find Darron standing in the doorway, almost quivering with indignation.

"Where's my wife, you bastard? What have you done with her?" he snarled, paws balling into fists.

Dominic looked from Darron to the pawkerchief still clenched in his own paw, then back to Darron. Hurriedly he scrambled to his footpaws, knocking over the chair he had fallen asleep in.

"Uh, uh, she's... I haven't done any-"

He was interrupted by a sharp blow to the stomach as Darron crossed the kitchen and slammed his fist into his younger brother. Dominic groaned and buckled over as Darron landed another blow in the small of his back, then another to the jaw that sent Dominic reeling across the room. Pots and pans crashed to the ground as the weasel hit the wall. He barely had time to catch his breath before Darron had grabbed his collar and dragged him back across to the table, forcing him to sit.

"All right, you maggot," he growled. "Tell me what you've been doing with my wife."

Dom swallowed nervously. "D-doing with-no! I'd never! Darron, you know I'd never! Faye, uh, she's gone to Redwall to fetch my, uh... Ella, the woodlanders wouldn't let... They took her from me, and Faye, she offered to go there..."

"Urgh, Redwall." Darron's eyes rolled. "Bad enough that I have to go chasing after the wench, but back there?" The weasel fixed Dom with a menacing glare. "This isn't over, bastard. If I find you've been so much as casting eyes on my wench, I'll tear you limb from limb. Are we clear?"

Dom nodded frantically.

"Now get your diseased hide out of this house, and never let me catch you skulking around here again, got it?"

Dominic nodded again, still stunned by the assault.

"Good." Darron patted his brother roughly on the head. "I'm glad we understand each other."

Without bothering to say anything more, Darron marched out of the shack, slamming the door so hard that the remainder of the pots not already on the floor plummeted noisily to join their brethren.

~

The Redwall that Faye arrived at that morning was significantly more subdued than the one she had been dragged away from the night before. Where mere hours earlier the ancient walls had echoed to the sounds of celebration, now there was a sullen silence, broken only by the occasional cry of a new beast in mourning. There air was still thick with dust from the collapsed tower, some of the rescuers were covered from head to footpaw in it, yet they were still doggedly digging through the remains in the hope of finding any more survivors.

Faye kept quiet and slipped through the crowds of beasts milling about in the courtyard. She had to find the infirmary before these distracted woodlanders let Ella leave with anyone else.

Beasts were hurrying past as she tried to find her way down the corridors of the old Abbey. Some of them were weeping, and she caught something about the Abbess.

_Was she caught up in that collapse as well?_ Faye wondered, turning a corner. Now this was a part of the Abbey she was so familiar with. And for once, she appeared to be alone. There was a large door at the end of the corridor, so she quietly pushed it open in the hopes of finding somebeast to ask directions from.

Inside was a dimly lit room full of shelf after shelf of books of all sizes and ages. It appeared to be deserted, until Faye thought she heard a quiet cough from the corner of the room. On closer investigation, she could just make out a pair of ears poking above a wall of books that had been piled up between a pair of shelves.

"Ah, excuse me?" she called. The ears pricked up. "I wonder if you could tell me the way to the Infirmary?"

"The Infirmary, wot?" came the disembodied voice. "It's back down the corridor, third passage on the left and then straight down, and a right. But you don't want to go there, it's full of germs and disease, don't you know!"

"Thank you, I'll, ah, I'll bear that in mind," Faye called as she backed away from the strange sight.

Following the strange hare's instructions, it didn't take very long for Faye to find her way to the Infirmary. It was filled to capacity, when the beds had run out the Sisters had been forced to make up beds on the floor out of blankets. Faye picked her way through the scene of carnage, looking for Ella. It was a slow process, with more than one false alarm before Faye finally caught sight of the familiar yellow dress.

"Faye!" Ella's big eyes lit up with excitement as the pair spotted each other at the same time. "Faye, Faye, Faye's here!"

Faye grinned and gave the excited youngster a hug. "Hello there, Ella," she cooed, "How are we feeling?"

The young weaselmaid made a face. "I'm 'ungry," she declared. "Smuggy woobladder food is ickyicky. An' I'm asleepy. I wan' poppy cuddles."

"Well you'd better hurry up and get out of bed if you want to see Daddy!"

There was a sudden tap on Faye's shoulder. She looked around to see a rather matronly hedgehog standing behind her, arms crossed and a disapproving look on her face.

"We've kept this young'un here for her own protection," she said, in a distinct 'What do you think you're doing?' tone.

Faye matched the Sister's gaze. "Well, I'm her mother and I've come to take her home."

The Sister looked wary. "Her mother? You might not know, but her father was here last night, tried to break her out of here by force. A very dangerous beast Ma'am, it's said he's the one responsible for the brutal murder of our dear Abbess, not to mention the brutal killing of one of the Skipper's otters…"

The hedgehog tailed off, looking like she might cry herself. Faye gasped in surprise at the woodlander's accusation. _Dom, a murderer? There's no way! It's simply impossible!_ Even so, it was a serious charge being levelled against her friend. _I have to get Ella away from here, I have to get the pair of them to safety. It's the only way. _

"I can assure you, Sister, that my daughter will be safe in my care. We haven't seen anything of her father in several seasons now." Ella was busy unravelling the bandage of the mouse in the bed next to her, and obviously not listening.

The hedgehog looked her up and down. "Well, she obviously knows you. You seem honest enough to me, and we are rather overcrowded…"

Faye nodded. "I would be happy to take her off your busy paws, Sister. What do you say, Ella?"

Ella nodded furiously. "Wanna go wif Faye! Wanna go wif Faaaaaye!"  
Seeing the enthusiasm from the youngster, the Sister relented. "Fine, you can go. Take care of her!"

"Of course!" Faye exclaimed, giving Ella another hug. "Come on, dear. Let's get you something nice to eat."

Ella cheered with delight, and Faye lifted her out of the bed, took her little paw in hers and headed for the door. Ella was practically dancing along next to Faye as they emerged into the courtyard. It seemed like they were the only beasts there that weren't miserable.

Suddenly Faye felt her blood run cold. In the distance, by the Abbey gate, was Darron. And by the expression on his face, he wasn't going to appreciate a meeting with Ella. Luckily it didn't look like he'd spotted them yet. Faye glanced around for an escape route, or hiding place, anything to keep the young weaselmaid safe from her husband's temper. Finally she spotted a lizard, dressed in fancy clothes, frantically packing up a cart and muttering to herself. _That must be the one that Dom was talking about._ Perfect!

Faye dragged Ella across the courtyard to the lizard. She heard them coming, and turned quickly, as if to defend herself. The reptile's look of relief at not being set upon quickly froze when she saw the young kit being dragged in her direction.

"Oh no," she protested, waving her claws frantically. "She izn't coming anywhere near me!"

Faye jabbed the lizard's shoulder with an accusing claw. "Well, your firesticks have her father in a lot of trouble, and there'll be more trouble for you unless you take this kit, and hide her from that weasel until I say it's safe to give her back. Got it?"

Darron was coming closer, but he still didn't look like he'd spotted them. Vikraja glanced from him to Faye's determined face before finally shrugging her shoulders in resignation.

"Fine, put her in the cart. But what she breakz, you buy!"

Without bothering to answer, Faye quickly lifted Ella into the cart, and covered her with some of the colourful cloth. "Now Ella, we're going to play hide and seek for a while, all right?" she whispered. "You have to stay very quiet until I say that the game is over."

Ella nodded and put her paw in front of her mouth. "Shhh! Peekerboo, shhh!" With a soft giggle, the kit burrowed her way further into the cart. "My, my nose smells chokwiiit?"

"Spending more of my hard earned silver, wench?"

Faye spun round to find Darron glowering over her, paws on his hips.

"Of course not, Darron! I was-"

Her husband grabbed her arm roughly and made to drag her away. "Well get moving, one of that Abbey lot over there said there was some reward on offer for bringing in some runaways. You're going to help me get it. Move!"


	19. Distance Equals Rate Times Time

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 18. Distance Equals Rate Times Time  
**

_by Shandi_

The southern outskirts of Redwall City were quiet that night, most inhabitants being asleep and thus blissfully unaware of the horrific events that had just taken place in the abbey proper. The distant explosions the night-owls heard were just passed off as, "Oh, those abbeyfolk sure do like their overblown parties." Houses and taverns gradually gave way to farms and rolling countryside, and then, finally, tranquil Mossflower Woods.

Tranquil, that is, save for the sounds of leaves rustling, twigs snapping, paws hammering against the ground, and sharp, rasping pants.

_It happened, it happened, it actually happened, and oh Fates, it—_

Whumph.

Shandi felt something snare one of her footpaws and she fell heavily to the ground. The squirrel's stomach roiled like a den of adders, and she vomited, unsteady streams of carob-laced bile pouring out all over the loamy ground. She rolled over and winced as she inspected the gritty scrapes on her paws, which she'd instinctively thrown out to protect herself as she fell. She cast angry eyes about, looking for the culprit. There. An innocent root poked up from the forest floor directly across her path.

The squirrel gave a wheezy snarl and snatched an axe from her belt cord. She attacked the offending root with all the strength she could muster.

"Stupid...mangy...damned...trees!"

The root was surprisingly resilient, despite sustaining several deep hews. Shandi flung the axe down in bitter defeat, still rasping for breath. Every bit of her ached. Stiletto knives of pain jabbed at her stomach. She'd never run so far in her life.

It was useless now; she doubted whether she had enough strength to even get back on her footpaws let alone continue running. What could she do? If she stayed here they'd find her, and it would all be over. She needed somewhere to hide.

Shandi's head lolled back and forth as she searched for a suitable place. A mighty oak had fallen nearby, its massive roots splayed out in all directions. Several clumps of ferns had sprung up around it. It wasn't perfect, but it would do.

The squirrelmaid grabbed her axe and crawled on shaky paws to the fallen tree. Untying her gauzy, purple tailscarf, she draped it over her shoulders, curled up underneath the trunk, and closed her eyes.

At least trees were useful for something.

~

_"Do you know what to do, Shandi, or shall I run over the plan one more time?"_

Shandi swallowed. The broom closet was cramped, and her father was standing in front of the door, blocking any chance of escape.

"Please. Please, don't make me do this."

"Please?" Clove chuckled. "Why, I think that's the first time I've ever heard you use that word."

"Father, please! What if...what if I just refuse to do it, eh?"

Clove smiled. He grabbed Shandi's ear roughly and pulled her in close. The squirrel was too frightened to even yelp in pain.

"Because," he hissed, "I know about the Sentinels."

~

Shandi woke with a groan, blinking in the grey, pre-dawn light. Images from the previous night's events had come back to haunt her in her dreams, and she'd slept badly as a result. It didn't help that there seemed to be limitless amounts of rocks jutting up underneath her, poking her at every turn. Plus, it was cold, damp, and she was quite hungry now, having lost much of her dinner last night.

The squirrel crawled out from under the tree and pulled herself up with sore paws onto even sorer legs. She wobbled for a moment, then leaned against the sun-bleached roots for support, shutting her eyes tight and gritting her teeth. This was going to take a while.

"Oof!"

Something blunt poked her right in the stomach. Shandi's eyes snapped open and she almost fell over backward in shock. A little mole had appeared seemingly from nowhere and was now waving shyly at her with a digging claw.

"Where the...What did..." the squirrel spluttered. "Who are ye?"

The mole twisted his tunic awkwardly in his claws, turning his button eyes to the ground. "D-Dem...Demitri."

"Demitri, eh? Where'd ye come from, Demitri?"

The mole pointed back north.

"Redwall?"

He nodded, still looking at his footpaws. Shandi nearly fell over backward again when she noticed that one of them was completely deformed.

"How in hellgates did ye make it this far on that?"

The mole picked up a well-used walking stick and held it up for Shandi to see. The squirrel shrugged and set about tying her tailscarf back on.

"Guess that makes sense. Well, er, nice meeting ye."

Shandi turned and started to limp away. She walked for at least a dozen paces before a niggling doubt wormed its way into her brain.

_Please don't let him be behind me still. Please don't let him be behind me still..._

She turned. He was.

"Oh no ye don't, mate," Shandi laughed mirthlessly. "Ye don't wanna be following me."

"W-whoi?" the pesky thing asked, resting a velvety cheek on his walking stick.

"Ye just don't," she snapped.

She walked a bit faster. The stumping of the mole's walking stick increased its speed as well. Shandi stopped again, silently pleading with the sky for a spare scrap of patience.

She turned again. "Here's the deal, whelp. First off, I hate Dibbuns. Always have, always will. Secondly, if ye come with me, ye're just going to get hurt, because a lot of beasts at Redwall most likely aren't too happy with me right now."

Demitri shrugged. "M-me either."

"Why, what'd ye do, go to bed late?" Shandi scoffed.

Demitri hung his head. "N-no."

He sniffed, tears falling from his eyes. Hellsteeth! Why did they always have to cry?

"Stop that."

"Oi c-c-carn't 'elp it," Demitri sobbed.

Dibbuns. So cute, and yet so useless.

Or perhaps...

Shandi scratched at her chin fur, frowning thoughtfully as the hare-brained scheme crept into her mind. They wouldn't dare kill her _and_ the defenseless little snotnose. Even _they_ wouldn't stoop that low. While it was certainly not ideal, it was the only chance she had. The mole's presence might just buy her enough time to get somewhere safe.

"Fine," she said. "Ye can come with me. Just keep up, and for the love of Vulpuz, _stop crying_."

~

_The abbess was dead._

It seemed like such a funny set of words for her brain to string together, at the time. Surely they weren't meant to make sense...were they?

Screams. Crying. Paws thudding and skittering every which way, echoing through the hallowed old halls of Redwall.

Not so hallowed anymore.

The squirrelmaid stumbled blindly down the hall, footpaws shuffling against the sandstone floor.

It was a dream. It was a dream. She'd wake up. She'd be fine. She'd go home in the morning with her family and her tribe, and everything would be back to normal.

She rounded the corner and smacked into something cold and solid.

"Lzzt! You! What are you doing here?"

Here? Where was here? Shandi looked around. Great Hall, by the looks of it. Vikraja's tail swished in annoyance when Shandi didn't answer immediately, and she bent down to pick something up.

"Yezzz," she hissed rapturously. "Thiz will do."

Some of the fog in Shandi's head cleared when she saw that the lizard was now brandishing what looked suspiciously like the legendary sword the Redwallers raved about all the time.

Vikraja frowned. "What iz wrong with you, zquirrel?"

The blade lifted higher, and the lizard's face clouded with vague suspicion. Shandi uttered a strangled squeak and whirled around, running as fast as her overladen footpaws would carry her. She completely bowled over a round, golden-furred beast as she neared the exit.

She didn't look back, even as the beast shrieked after her, "Watch where you're going, fattytail!"

Escape. She had to get out. She had no time for anything or anybeast else...even if the pudgy hypocrite had called her fat.

~

"Let me go! Oh, please, let me go!"

Shandi's ears shot up. She was about to tell Demitri to keep his sobbing gob shut, but then she remembered he didn't really talk much anyway. She settled on a none-too-gentle jab to the mole's chest to stop him blundering on for everybeast to hear, before pulling him off the path and into a nearby thicket.

The mole and squirrel had been following a winding road that meandered south but was much less traveled than the Great Mossflower Road which ran from north to south. They'd had to hide a couple of times already, on the off-chance that it was anybeast from Redwall, but so far they had just been merchants peddling rickety old carts.

This time, however, a hedgehog and a mouse had a weasel by the arms and were marching him along down the road, much to the weasel's obvious discontent.

"Please! I've got a kit! I'm all she has! You can't kill me, you...you just _can't_! I've done nothing wrong! Release me! I've...I've got to...to...sne...snee..._snk! Snk!_ Ah, ah, _snk_! Euuurgh..."

"Just shut up and keep movin'," the mouse grunted in disgust.

"For the last time!" the weasel begged, practically in hysterics as snot dribbled freely out of his nose. "At least let me wipe my nose before I _die_. Oh, what's the use! Go ahead and kill me, you murdering savages! Ugh, it's dripping everywhere...I hope you all get flurgy twinj and _rot_. That's right, lead me away! A swift death! I'll haunt you from the grave! I'm ill, you know, I could infect your whole families!"

"I said shuddap!"

The odd trio continued south down the road, the hedgehog and mouse stoically ignoring the weasel's pleas. Shandi and Demitri crawled out of the thicket.

"Well...that was weird," the squirrel said.

She felt a tug on her tunic and looked down to see Demitri pointing in the direction the others had gone.

"That w-w-weasel. Oi s-see'd 'im at R-Redwall l-l-last noight."

"Really? Are ye sure?"

Demitri nodded. "'E broke out th' 'f-f-firmary. Caused a r...Caused a ruh...ruckus. Roight before th' a...abb...abb—"

"Okay, okay, I get the point," Shandi interrupted. Good gravy, it'd probably be nightfall before the mole could finish his sentence, and the less that was said about the abbess's murder, the better. "Wonder what he's doing all the way down here and why those other beasts were practically dragging him."

She and Demitri shared a meaningful look.

Shandi shrugged. "S'pose it wouldn't hurt to find out."

Wherever they were taking the weasel, Shandi hoped they at least had some food there.


	20. The Draw of Luck

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 19. The Draw of Luck  
**

_by Shelton_

"The Forerat's asking questions now. There's nothing else I can do for you. He cannot know about my brother, or me. One would break his heart; the other..."

"They have my friend, your damned little brother's people. They kidnapped Doon, and we had a deal-"

"And you failed to uphold your end," the green-eyed rat replied coldly, rising from his chair to stare directly at Shelton. Lamplight flickered over the guest-room; voices could still be heard, even through the closed window toward which the rat waved a thin paw. "The Abbey's in disarray and everything I worked for is ruined. Teneleep wants your money before your life, and as an act of good faith I have persuaded him to grant you more time. He thinks in the smallest terms of the smallest things, as always; all he cares about is money. I told him you have savings elsewhere. For your sake, I hope I guessed correctly."

"Thank you," Shelton managed to say; he should have been grateful. He knew, but he could not summon a true feeling of gratitude, not while Doon was being held a prisoner, and they were responsible - factions be damned, it was the same family. They were all responsible - Teneleep, and his scheming older brother, and the whole pack of them. But most of all, it was his own fault...

"Where is the letter?" asked the rat as Shelton took a step. The guards, taking their queue, barred Shelton from the doorway.

"What, do you think I kept it with me?" Shelton snapped, and whirled around to face the rat prince.  
It was his fault; Doon was gone. Doon was going to die, and these rats could think of nothing but their petty squabbles. The pent-up guilt and frustration threatened to surge into a burning anger, the likes of which Shelton had known only once before in his life.  
"I don't care for your damned missives and intrigues. I don't care if your father kills the lot of you. You lured me in with a promise of pardon and I accepted, and now I'm in over my head. And now I'm going to leave."

"Search him," the rat hissed. Before Shelton could move or react, a blunt object struck the back of his head. "Not too loudly, or the Abbey Guard will hear..."

The weary stoat collapsed to the floor, losing consciousness.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Shelton, Miss."

"Is that your surname?"

He shook his head with a chuckle, taking the squirrel's paw in his and planting on it a quick kiss of polite deference. "No, Miss, that's me. Just Shelton."

"You're quite the charmer," she said with a smile. "What can I do for you, Shelton?"

"Well, I'd be hard-pressed to ask you for anything, Miss; a lady of your appearance demands respect, and seems unlike to respect demands."

The lady laughed; Shelton saw in her eyes the unmistakable signs of a drink or two.

"No, my business does not involve you in any way," said Shelton mischievously. "You simply caught my eye, and distracted me... In truth, I was searching for the abbess."

"For the abbess?" said the lady, and suddenly laughed even louder; Shelton laughed along but with a questioning glance, feigning confusion. "And what would you tell the abbess if you had found her?"

His heart beat faster. He thought of Doon, and of how much he owed his friend in currencies that money could never repay.

"I would tell her..."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Shelton's eyes snapped open and he hopped to his footpaws, immediately regretting that he had and collapsing back to the damp earth of the Abbey grounds. His eyes ached horribly in the cloudy morning light, his clothes were torn and dirty and he was bruised in several places. Raising a paw to his head, he felt the sticky matting of blood in his fur.  
He groaned. "Well, you thought things couldn't get any lower, didn't you Shelton, you idiotic vermin?"

No beast had paid notice to a young stoat lying alone in the alcove by the guest quarters while so many beasts were hurt in the wreckage of the bell-tower. It was quiet in the Abbey now, everywhere but the houses of healing. He felt a few drops of morning rain on his face as he gained full stature once more, wincing at the pounding headache that assaulted his senses as he began to walk across the grounds.

"Yes!" he exclaimed suddenly, kneeling to the ground and breathing a sigh of relief as he saw his hiding place behind the tents untouched; digging paw after paw into the earth, he uncovered the small, woven bag he had haphazardly buried the night before. It housed his only two current possessions of value: two pieces of paper, gently crumpled. One, a bill, having the worth of a hundred Silvers. And the other, a letter - worth still unknown. He wrapped them back in the bag and placed the bag in his pocket.

"What're ye doin' there, Stoat?"

Shelton froze, closing his eyes. The voice from the paths behind him was gruff and accusative; probably a guard. Better to be honest with a guard - as honest as necessary.

"Just grabbing a couple of my things," he said, turning around to face his new companion; it was an otter. A great big otter. There were others beside him; otters, but also two uniformed rats. There were also several stragglers and frightened former partiers that Shelton had not seen at first, following up behind the guards: hares, a stoat, a weasel or two, and several squirrels. But the rats; the bitter thought occurred to Shelton that this had been a few very bad days between himself and rats. "Then I'll be off," he added clumsily.

One squirrel, a familiar-looking male, was wandering away from the group absent-mindedly. No one seemed to pay him any heed.

"Skipper's gath'ring everybeast in th' Main Hall," said the otter leader. "Best come with us-" he nodded to the mixed group of beasts in the guards' wake.

"I'm wounded," Shelton replied automatically.

"Infirmary's on th' way."

The stoat stared without expression; behind his eyes, he cried damnation against the poor luck that had taken hold of him. "Right then. Lead on."

It seemed like a slow war-march as Shelton followed along with the group, barely listening to the tumultuous cries of beasts around him as they hustled and bustled and searched for their lost, wounded or dead loved ones. Others, as they neared the belltower again, could be heard crying out in pain - there was a crowd of beasts at the rubble, clearing fallen rocks aside and searching for survivors. He saw the wreck of the tents that had covered the stage, and realized that the cart of Hector's Acting Troupe, in the shadow of which he had spent most of the previous night, had vanished-

"Ow! What do you think you're doing, you great oaf!"

Shelton had stepped headlong into the back of a plucky dark-furred squirrel; she shoved him away, glaring with a heated gaze.

"Apologies, Miss," he said, bowing gently, recovering his manners more quickly than he had ever thought himself capable of. "Wasn't watching. I'm Shelton; and you-"

"Don't give a damn who you are," the squirrel replied huffily, and continued on, keeping pace with the crowd as they neared the main hall. Shelton shrugged.

"Not used to good policy, is she?" he thought, noticing that the squirrel was armed for combat. He wondered where she was planning to go.

Then he sighed, forgetting his troubles for a moment and remembering that he was aching for a witty female to converse with. What was the name of that girl wildcat, the one to whom he had been speaking the previous night? Aliana? Alastia? Going on and on about somebeast called June. Such a self-absorbed girl, he remembered. But he'd listened to her and assured her she was right to call June every name she did... And then she'd helped him find the Abbess...  
Shelton shivered involuntarily. He thought of what things he had - his clothes, muddled as they were, and the contents of his bag. Then he thought of what things he had not - weapons, pawned long ago in Atherton; money to sustain himself; money to pay his debts... Teneleep had given him more time, if the elder brother could be believed, but how much time? Shelton realized he did not know, and had not asked. It was probably not as long as a month; and how could he possibly summon another five thousand in anything less than a month?

"There has to be a way," he thought as the guards waved him to the infirmary, along with a few others from the group - he cringed a little as one of the rats wished him good luck.

"There's always a way, isn't there?"

"Are you alright?"

"I think so," said Shelton as he stepped into the infirmary ward, sounding a bit dizzier than he actually felt. "I seem to have... well, gotten hit. The head. I think... a rock? I'm Shelton. Who are you?"

"I'm Sister Camia. Let me have a look," the little mouse-nurse intoned; it was more of an order than a suggestion. She examined Shelton's injuries for a moment as he glanced around the room. The ward was filled with patients that could safely claim worse injuries than he; Vermin and woodlander alike, set up with care by the stern but gentle staff of the Abbey. For a moment he was reminded of the Lavery Hospital, back in Shonia, where his mother had worked. He swallowed uncomfortably as a bit of stubborn pride stirred within him.

"I've made a mistake, Sister Camia," he said, forcing a smile. He noticed otters and rats weaving in and out of the ward, asking questions of the nurses and the patients.  
And I really should be going... Maybe they won't recognize me, but what if they do?  
"These beasts need your attentions far more than I do."

"Nonsense. We're out of beds, but you can have a seat. I can clean you up, at least."

"Ella!"  
A quick, earnest and sudden shout reverberated throughout the infirmary hall. The speaker, a dusted weasel with a relieved expression on his face, hurried over to a nurse holding a young girl-kit.

"I am... obliged," Shelton stammered, watching the scene and suddenly feeling himself very nearly the lowest he had in his life as Sister Camia dabbed at his bruised head with dampened rags.

"That's him!" the nurse with the kit exclaimed suddenly, and one of the otters immediately grabbed the weasel. "Sister Summers?" Camia shouted; she turned to Shelton and uttered a word of excuse before hurrying to help. Feeling uncomfortable, Shelton rose, pulled his frayed jacket back up on his shoulders and edged toward the door.

"Can't stay, can't stay too long," Shelton muttered to himself, dodging his way through the crowded passages of the Abbey. He passed by a doorway that opened onto the main hall.

"...Numerous suspects have fled..." he heard a booming voice proclaim. He stopped, listening.

"...There will be a reward for any beast who brings them back alive."

"How much is it?" A shrill voice piped out of the crowd that surrounded the speaker - whom Shelton could still not make out, despite having edged his way through the door by now.

"We've decided to set the reward at a strike of six hundred and fifty gold, given to any individual or group for each suspect returned alive. We'll catch this murd'rer."

Shelton smiled. "Perhaps my luck has not yet run out..."

"And what if they're dead?" a shrew shrieked.

"There'll be no reward," a different speaker finished simply.

The questions continued as Shelton pushed his way through the crowd towards a small clearing. Somebeast, a scribe, was taking registrations of a sort, recording the names and descriptions of any would-be bounty hunters...

"Ah!" Shelton exclaimed, finding the one face in the crowd he recognized. "Miss-"

"Aya," said the dark-furred squirrel. About to commend her for her manners, he realized she was not speaking to him at all - in fact, she had just signed her name to the hedgehog scribe's page.

"As good as mine, I'll be back in a week," she announced confidently to the registrar, turning to leave - and promptly collided with Shelton.

"You!" roared the squirrel.

"Shelton," the stoat repeated, flashing a toothsome smile as he offered his paw to help her up. "That's my name. Might I inquire about a partnership, Miss Aya?"

She refused the paw.


	21. Retrograde Analysis

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 20. Retrograde Analysis  
**

_by Daskin_

###

"I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.  
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.  
I learn by going where I have to go."  
-Theodore Roethke

###

Daskin sat, hunched, atop his own luggage chest, his traveling cloak pulled tightly about his narrow shoulders. The visual effect of all this was to make him seem even smaller than usual, and in the darkness he was hardly visible. They'd been traveling… how long? Maybe a few hours, maybe it was close to morning. Daskin was fairly sure he'd nodded off once or twice, but couldn't quite recall waking up—he remained still in that hazy state of half-consciousness.

"Mmmmff. Dunno what—oh, no, you bally well oughtn't touch that." Daskin's head snapped toward the sudden sound, and he squinted through the dim—Fjord remained in a somewhat different half-conscious state, his eerie, blank stare punctuated by delirious rambling.

"Oh, cut out yer babbling, ya daft nugget," a voice rumbled in the darkness. That would be the hedgehog, then, the burly, smelly beast they'd taken on to hasten their flight. Daskin found the accent comforting; it reminded him of home.

The cart bounced a little, and something slid along the floor and jostled Daskin's footpaw. He reached down and picked it up—it was Hector's chess set, a pretty folding board not dissimilar to the one Juniper had bought for him. Daskin ran his paws over the carved lines between the squares, feeling the soothing order of the board and the slight scratches that declared, softly, that the board was not just a decoration for some noblebeast's end table but had been played hundreds of times.

"No, you can't make me, I say! A chap is entitled to refuse an ear-extension if he so pleases. Mary, I don't—"

Daskin felt a surge of irritation. The hare dancer had been knocked utterly senseless in the explosion, he supposed, but—Daskin shuffled over to the hare, who continued to mutter insensibly. He stared into Fjord's glassy eyes for a long moment.

"Who're—oh! It's the fellow in the fine hat. You're all silver. I say, that's a dashing color on you, but have you considered green? I'm told it's quite fashionable these days, wot?"

Daskin lashed out with the chessboard, catching Fjord across the temple; the hare dropped all at once to the floor of the cart. Daskin found himself breathing heavily, very much awake, and several members of the troupe—those who had been roused by the noise—regarded the ferret kit's outburst with slack-jawed amazement.

"I thought," Daskin began to proclaim, "it might—" he mumbled, "—might wake him up."

Hector shifted position as though to speak, but paused a moment, watching Daskin. Something passed between the fox and the ferret, a flicker of communication in dim silence, and then—

"That's our clever little Silver!" Juniper piped up, his cheerfulness perhaps a bit strained in its very intensity. "He'll wake up and be good as new—"

"—assuming the little twit hasn't killed him," Alastia snarled.

Daskin stumbled a bit on the way back to his seat. Fjord groaned.

"Oh, dear. My head feels as though a parade of hedgehogs in wrought iron boots have been doing the bally merengue on my skull, and wait just a tick... Where am I?"

Daskin swallowed.

"You're with Hector's troupe, we've left the Abbey. You've been babbling nonsense since the tower fell…"

###

From the lawn, Daskin felt more than heard the bell tower fall—first the rush of air from the firestick exploding, and then the shockwave from the collapsing tower itself ruffled his fur. This was it, then; the tension he had sensed in the truce's wake had been broken, and in grand fashion. Surely, mere hours after the truce's conclusion, this explosion could not be a coincidence.

As shrieks died down to a clamor of angry voices and the occasional cries of the wounded, Daskin wandered casually in the direction of the rubble. He had to get closer, to find out what had happened… his instincts, of course, were screaming for him to find Hector and, above all else, _get out_. His heart throbbed in his chest, making him so acutely conscious of his own heartbeat. Even in the darkness, Daskin expected the occasional beast walking past him to witness his heaving chest and pull him aside, whether for medical attention or out of suspicion.

And above his own heartbeat and the sound of countless voices, he heard… something. A young voice, younger than his own, crying out. He looked around, and in the dim spotted somebeast just beyond the edge of the collapsed tower, hidden in the shadow of a huge block of stone. He padded over, quietly.

"Hello? Are you hurt?"

Daskin was close enough to see her now—a female weasel kit. She didn't respond, whimpering and grabbing at her shoulder. He thought for a moment, considered leaving her there; he didn't need to be weighed down, and she'd no doubt be picked up by somebeast shortly. Daskin took another look.

"Can you walk?"

"I wan' my, my Poppy!" As she spoke, the weasel kit attempted to stand and succeeded for a fleeting moment before swaying a bit. She slumped against the stone. Daskin sighed, and threaded one paw around her back to support her.

"What's your name?" Daskin struggled a bit, his own legs and back crying out as they tried to support the weasel's weight, pulling her upright. He couldn't lift her, not entirely.

Sniffle, sniffle, hiccup… "I'm—my named Ella."

Daskin managed to half-lift, half-pull the smaller weasel along with him. He knew he'd seen an infirmary during his wanderings before the show, but where?

"My name's…"

Slow, deep breaths. His legs burned, his back shrieking as he hunched to carry Ella along. Her chest hitched, he could feel it, and as close as they were he could smell blood on her, raw and metallic. The heat coming off the little weasel frightened him a bit as well. Did it mean she was badly hurt?

"My name's Daskin."

_Oh, no… don't get distracted, idiot!_

Ella whimpered, clutching at Daskin's cloak. Daskin gagged. The tie at his throat strangled him slightly, and he wriggled it into a slightly better position.

"They call me Silver, the troupe does. So it's what you'd best call me, if anybeast asks. So they know who I am, you see." Daskin muttered the last sentence through gritted teeth. He'd saddled himself with a lame weasel kit and a great deal of unnecessary risk; his position was crumbling. _Mo chreach!_ he thought, then smiled a bit as he imagined his parents hearing him say _that_ aloud, like some common beast.

One step, then another. They made it to the infirmary door, and Daskin became again aware of not just the kit's panting and whimpers but his own, which formed a sort of painful counterpoint.

"Oh dear, and who is this? Have I seen you before, dearie?" a mouse clucked at him, scooping Ella into her arms.

"She said her name's Ella," Daskin wheezed. "I found her near… what's left of the bell tower."

"Well, you did quite right to bring her here," the mouse said, her voice sounding quite as though she were scolding him, and she glared at his shoulder. Daskin saw a large smear of blood there, where it had oozed from a cut on Ella's cheek. _Little chance of getting this cleaned, then._ "What did you say your name was?"

Before he could reply, two beasts spoke at once—

"Ella!" Another weasel, young and worried-looking, his nose bloody, had followed them into the infirmary.

" 'is name's Das—Daskin!"

The infirmary sister's eyes widened, and she hesitated a split-second before turning to the newcomer. Daskin was already pushing past the weasel, through the door, as he heard her shout…

"That's _him_! He was saying all these horrible things! Then he escaped and _he killed her_!"

And Daskin was gone, this time cursing aloud as he sprinted down the corridor. _She _knows_ now, or she'll figure it out soon enough. Have to get out._

"Dammit, dammit, dammit!"

He made a break for the troupe's cart, feather still bobbing ludicrously as he ran. As soon as he arrived, he dove into the back of the cart, burrowing in between crates and chests that held the troupe's equipment and belongings.

Daskin didn't move until several minutes after he felt the cart rumbling down the road.

###

Daskin pulled himself out from between two boxes that had moved to squash his knees against his chest… whether they had moved to serve as furniture for beasts riding in the cart or simply due to the cart's bumpy ride he couldn't tell, covered as he was with a cloak and two blankets that smelled of fox and mildew.

"Wha—and who do we have here?" Hector yelped as Daskin emerged next to his footpaws. "You've been on here all along?"

Daskin nodded. "We're in trouble."

The fox's eyes narrowed. "Don't I know it," he said, and then raised his voice. "Oy, Juniper! Your ferret's here, and no 'plot devices' involved!"

"Daskin!" the otter chirped. He momentarily let go of the cart, which he was helping to push along. It lurched perilously leftward as the other side pushed faster, and Juniper almost ended up under the wheel before he caught up, practically skipping.

###

The troupe sat in a circle around the campfire, Daskin at Juniper's side. Every few minutes, as Daskin turned to follow one piece or another of the conversation, the otter would swiftly poke him in the side and then act ostentatiously nonchalant as Daskin turned and glared.

Fjord wandered over to sit on Daskin's left, brandishing Hector's chess board at the kit. "I hear this is what you jolly well slapped me senseless with, eh?" The hare frowned. "Er. Slapped me sensible, rather, wot?"

"Yes…?" Daskin replied.

"And… yes. And! Hector said that you play a good game, so I thought by way of being mates we ought to play, if you're up for it?"

Daskin's eyes lit up, and he reached for the board in Fjord's paw. "Sure."

The hare nodded vigorously and began to set up the board. "Err, these ones with the funny little hats go here, right?"

Daskin suppressed a groan. "Yes. Ow!" He turned to glare at Juniper, whose paws were behind his back as he examined the stars overhead.

"Your move."

Quite shortly, the world was gone—his soreness, the distracting otter, and even the hare's annoying mannerisms. Only the game remained.

_I go there, he goes there, I go there…_

A few moves in, Fjord had already begun frowning, sketching out little diagrams in the air with one paw. His ears folded over at the tips.

"I think I may be about to suffer some casualties, wot!"

"Eeep!" Daskin leapt from his seat, grabbing Juniper by the shoulders as he pounced onto the otter's chest, raining blows on one brawny shoulder. "Stop—that—you—nuisance!"

Daskin turned back to the board and studied the position for a second.

"Put it back." He glared at Fjord.

"Er, wot?" The hare feigned innocence, which was of course completely ludicrous.

"Pawn. Here." Daskin tapped a mysteriously empty square with one claw, shooting the hare another accusatory glance. Fjord plunked the pawn back onto the square. Daskin moved it forward without even looking at it, and then pounced on Juniper again, this time jabbing him in the ribs.

"Er, I do hate to disturb you, but it's your move."

"Mmm." Daskin surveyed the board, then slid his queen to a square adjacent to Fjord's king. He shifted position and feinted another pounce, snickering as Juniper jumped back and raised his paws in self-defense.

"I think you've gotten yourself into a spot of, wossname, bally awful trouble," Fjord gloated, snapping up Daskin's queen.

"Check." Daskin had moved again, lightning-fast.

"You know wot my mum used to say? Well, one of my mums. Fellow can never have too many, eh? She said: nobeast ought to go against a military-type creature in a game of strategy. Bred into us hares."

"Still your move, rabbit," Daskin drawled.

"Hmph, no proper respect, that's the problem with the younger generation, don'cha know." Fjord focused on the board.

"It's forced, you know."

"Yes, anybeast can see that, it's as plain as the nose on yer muzzle. Hmph. 'Forced,' indeed." Fjord moved.

"Good game, mister Fjord," Daskin said. "Checkmate."

"But I—but—" The hare's mouth moved a bit, wordless, as he examined the position. "Clever little brat."

"I wouldn't mind playing you again. You might learn something," Daskin continued, smirking. The hare had earned the winding-up, he decided. May as well enjoy it.

Fjord slapped the board with one paw, sending a few pieces flying. He stomped off, though where he intended to stomp off _to_ was rather unclear, all things considered. Around the other side of the fire, Hector watched the hare take a few paces into the darkness, hang his head, and begin to trot back. He extended one paw in a relaxed gesture, beckoning for Daskin to approach.

"Probably best for you to get some sleep, otherwise Mama Kenzie'll have me made into a hat when I bring you back. C'mon, back to the cart, you can share a corner with Juniper if you like."

###

Inside the rather dingy tent, Daskin sat at Hector's side; Hector wrapped one arm around the kit. "Hector…" Daskin shifted uncomfortably. He reached one paw under his tunic and drew out the letter he'd concealed there. "Are we being followed, do you think?" Daskin asked, voice as low as he could make it, and barely a whisper.

"Possibly." Hector considered a moment. "Probably, even."

"I still have this, in case…" He gestured with the letter.

"It took me a day or two, but I did realize what that letter must be." The fox's light, conversational tones took a dramatic turn. "You ought to burn that thing the first chance you get."

Daskin sighed. "I don't think it matters, either way."

"It may not matter to _you_, but then _you_ are going to end up safe and sound if anybeast can possibly help it," Hector snapped. "And if somebeast pursuing us, if some such beast gets a paw on that letter? What then?" Hector pulled his paw away from the ferret kit, and inched away almost imperceptibly. "What does it look like, if somebeast suspected of murdering the Abbess of Redwall holds _that_?"

"The Abbess? Somebeast killed—"

"Yes." Hector gave a curt nod.

Daskin cast his eyes to the floor, searching among the detritus of the cart for an answer, and finding none. He felt his eyes brimming with sudden tears. Hector played well enough to see the right moves, most of the time. This time, the fox's analysis… was stunningly clear-headed. And he'd missed it.

"I'll burn it. I don't want to, but I'll burn it." Daskin rasped, and crashed into Hector's side, sobbing. "Please, please help me, just let me get home. _Please._"

###

Daskin stared into the embers of the fire, feeling only his stomach churning. He knew his own thoughts were unclear, but he could do little but _feel_. His stomach, his sore legs, the heat of the fire at his chest and the cool of the night at the back of his neck. He _felt_, and could no longer, on this tiring, painful night, _think_.

The smoke stung his throat and eyes, and if he tried hard enough, he could imagine that this was the only cause for his tears. He held the letter out over the dying campfire, for a long moment…

###

Juniper regarded the ferret kit with concerned eyes. "No need to cry, I was just teasing you earlier, you know."

"It's… it's not that," Daskin couldn't help but laugh at Juniper's mournful expression, though he still sniffled a bit.

"Well, that hare Fjord is just a big bully sometimes, I ought to give him a kick for hassling you—" Juniper scowled his best scowl.

"…or that…"

"I give up. I guess you're the victim of long-muzzle disease, makes you look all sad. A traaaaagic end for a little ferret. Leave me your hat. I like that hat."

"You can have the hat."

"No, no, looks better on you. It's dashing."

Daskin laid down on the blanket that had earlier covered him, the one that smelled like fox. It was strangely comforting.

"Do you ever wonder how—I can't quite say it right. How you got somewhere?"

Juniper cocked his head to one side. "Not really."

"How am I lying in a cart, in a field, in the middle of nowhere, posing as a member of an acting troupe? How did that _happen_?" Daskin's voice rose a bit, to almost a whine.

Juniper was silent, and then: "Dunno." He slung a warm paw around Daskin's shoulders. "Maybe because you think too much."

###

_To Whosoever May Read This Letter,_

The bearer of this letter is Lord Daskin Stirling, our only heir, and he and his entourage are under the full protection of Stirling House. We shall answer for any and all of his actions. However, if Lord Daskin is detained or harmed in any way, Stirling House shall consider such harm a deliberate act of warfare, and respond accordingly. Beware.

Lord Angus and Lady Claire Stirling, of Marshank and the Eastern Sea  



	22. March of the Hares

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 21. March of the Hares  
**

_by Juniper_

It was unusual for the troupe to use the cart as a place of rest. Indeed, with all the boxes and chests filled with props and costumes, it was much easier to pitch a few tents and leave the valuables alone, out of the elements and where somebeast would be hard pressed to filch them. Juniper had noticed that it was only during times of extreme haste that they bothered to remove the chests in favor of hunkering down in the cart, where—with a troupe of seven plus creatures—it was much more effective to sort everything back together in a matter of minutes than spending half an hour folding up a few tents.

Such was the case they found themselves in now. The props and costumes lay beneath the cart, so that each creature was given enough room to lie down. Juniper had never been so crowded in his life. It was true that the cart was not designed to hold ten creatures, even if one of those was a kit, as the size of Dànaidh more than made up for the petite space Daskin occupied. As such, they all lay on top and across each other, half the blankets and sheets discarded for the sheer amount of body heat that was being trapped within the cart. Dànaidh was the only exception, who had curled up in an isolated corner, because he was a hedgehog.

Despite the overcrowding, it was exhaustion more than anything else that allowed sleep to overcome their discomfort.

* * *

Juniper opened bleary eyes against the brightness that had taken a sudden, unwelcoming presence within the cart. It was morning, he realized after some thought, and judging from the radiant dot against the canvas, a few hours after sunrise. The otter gave a yawn, his paws and tail brushing over other members of the troupe as he extended his body for the grandest stretch in recent memory. A body shifted against him. Cracking another yawn, one so intense that it afflicted him with a fit of trembling, the otter looked down at the creature that had curled against him. Daskin's silver fur had taken an orange tinge from the glowing canvas. Juniper slouched back down, allowing the ferret to sink back into his body as he wrapped his arm around the kit in an attempt to make them both more comfortable. Daskin yawned and cuddled closer. The otter returned the yawn.

To say Juniper was shocked to find the kit had been with them the whole time would have been an understatement. It was a relief, certainly, but it made the otter curious for the whole meaning of it. His actions had been worthless. His emotions, pointless. It was almost as though the entire thing had been unnecessary, there to evoke a strong reaction that, at the end of it all, achieved nothing. He hadn't known the kit was with them the entire time; how could he? Daskin had been nowhere nearby, on the set or off it. Nothing had been planned, nothing written out. It was true that Juniper loved a good improvisational act, but even that seemed a little ridiculous in hindsight. It wasn't worth the emotional baggage.

But then, wasn't that part of being the older brother? To care for and take responsibility, no matter what, even when things were at their darkest? It didn't seem fair, however, to put him through so much stress. Not when it was all for naught. Juniper could still feel the scratch marks Hector had awarded him. Award? Was that the right word? It didn't seem right to reward responsibility like that. The otter played the scene over and over in his head, trying to figure out where he had gone wrong, what he could have done differently, but decided, at some length, that he wouldn't have changed a thing. But that left him with another sour taste in his mouth. Even though he took the best direction and made all the right choices, Juniper could not deny how much it upset him that he had never felt in control.

And now they had lost the chess set. Juniper wondered for a brief moment—

"June!" Gergreg hissed from across the cart.

Juniper blinked. "What?"

"Quit your gabbing! I'm trying to get some sleep!"

The otter furrowed his brow. "What are you talking about?"

"Mmm, what's all this ruckus now?" Hector mumbled, half asleep.

"June's in the middle of a soliloquy."

Hector curled against Thera. "Well, tell him to shut up." His breathing dropped to something a little more regular.

A few moments passed the cart in silence, before Juniper tried to remember where his thoughts had last left him.

They had lost the chess set. Juniper wondered for a brief moment if it would come into play later, or if the entire thing had been a—

A script smacked against his face.

* * *

"Red herring?"

"What?" Daskin asked as he sat on a log near the fire that had been erected for breakfast.

"Do you want a red herring?" Juniper asked again, offering the kit a fish. There was no plate, no platter. The fish fought and flopped in Juniper's outstretched paw.

Daskin raised an eye. "Where did you get that?"

"There's a stream not too far from here," he said. Indeed, after he and the rest of the troupe had risen from their slumbers, it was only a short trek to the small running body of water, and even less time for the otter to catch a few fish for breakfast.

Daskin brought a paw to his eyes as the otter shivered, spraying droplets of water in all directions. "I thought herring was a saltwater fish."

Juniper shrugged and bit off the head, then offered it to Daskin a second time. The kit paled and shook his head.

The rest of the troupe were off doing their own things. Gergreg and Gergreg were busying themselves by loading the cart back up, Alastia was grooming herself as she was wont to during any sort of downtime, and the rest were gathered around the fire and eating.

"I don' see why we're eatin' fish when we've got a perfectly good 'are right 'ere," Envie said, frowning at his meal. He narrowed his eyes in Fjord's direction. "What I wouldn't do for a dish o' brains."

"Brains? I don't think so," Juniper said, making a face. "If we're talking about hares, try the leg. They don't work it just for kicks, if you know what I mean. By far the largest and most enjoyable part of a hare, mmm!" Juniper closed his eyes and smiled, pretending that he was enjoying a nice roasted hare's leg.

Envie scoffed. "Are you daft? Th'leg's too tough an' wiry. If'n you want good meat, go for th'bottom!"

"Excuse me, gents," Fjord interjected, leaning on his seat and waving a paw to get their attention. "But if you're talking about the tastiest part of a hare, I think you should be asking me, wot."

"I can't say nuthin' 'bout hare, laddies," Dànaidh said, joining in. "But ye kin the tastiest part o' a hog? Far better than any hare, I says."

"Far better?" Juniper repeated, springing from his seat. He bounced over to Dànaidh, hopping from footpaw to footpaw like a true prizefighting Long Patroller. "Tis a bally shame t'be soilin' a hare's honor like that. Worse than a hog, tcha! I've half a mind t'teach you some manners."

The hedgehog smiled, trying to bat the otter away as he continued to eat his fish, but Juniper was persistent, jabbing at the air, and throwing light kicks Dànaidh's way.

"Ach, come off it, June." Dànaidh continued to swat at the otter, but he was too slow. Juniper aimed a soft but solid kick on his flank, and then circled around and threw an even softer kick at the hedgehog's back, though that was more for his own safety than Dànaidh's. "I ain't gonna 'urt ye."

"I should say not, sah!" the otter said, continuing to badger the hedgehog. "Can't hit wot you can't see, me mater allus says. Float like a butterfly, sting like a bee, wot!"

Dànaidh reached out quicker than Juniper expected, grabbing ahold of his footpaw. The otter yanked it free, and returned it with a light tap from the other foot. A low chuckle came forth from the hedgehog as he rose.

"A'ight, me fine riverdog. Let's dance!"

Juniper was ecstatic as they moved away from the fire to a small clearing. Dànaidh hunched his shoulders, his quills splaying as he circled round the otter, who was ducking and weaving without a clear idea of what he was really doing.

"I'm only gonna match th'pace ye set, aye? I likes ye too much odderwise."

"I say, sah, afraid, are yeh?"

Danaidh's face split into a goofy grin. "Mebbe."

The antics of the two had roused the interest of the rest of the troupe, who began looking on the pair in interest. The pine marten twins had stopped loading the cart in favor of watching the show, and were so kind as to add to the effect by providing commentary.

"I say, Gergreg, this is looking to be quite a match-up. In the Blue Corner we've got Juniper Dantor, weighing goodness knows how many pounds and as tall as an otter should be, I wager."

"That's right, Gergreg, and in the … oh, what color is that shirt of his? So bland and generic. Let's just say the Hedgehog Corner we've got Dànaidh Ah-Skin-Ear-Ache, or however you pronounce it—I just don't know. Weight's gotta be a hefty times more than June, by the size of him, and I don't think that's all fat."

"Indeed, it's going to be tough for the young'un to usurp the champ, but if his run's any indication, I think it's a fair bet. He's got the skill, he's got the nerve, he's got the touch, he's got the power!"

Juniper was loving it. He was loving it! The otter was bursting to the brim with energy, belying the fitful rest he had received mere hours ago. He closed in on the hedgehog, threw a left, then a right, scoring two hits on Dànaidh's right shoulder. The hedgehog returned it with a jab of his own, but Juniper had enough time to bob out of the way before his paw could connect.

"Oh, I say, the novice scores the first hit."

"He's got the speed for it, indeed. Ooh, and Dàni retaliates with a right hook to the shoulder."

Juniper hopped away, working his arm as he tried to collect himself. He hadn't expected the force behind the hit. He didn't even have to act it out—that was how much it hurt. He cast a glance towards the Gergregs, who were full in on their running commentary of the fight, and then to the campfire, where everybeast else was watching with enthusiasm. Giving his shoulder another shrug, he went back in.

"Oh, doesn't look like June's faring well, here. I don't think he's following through with his punches."

"You said it, Gergreg. Ooh, and there comes a chuck to the chin by Dànaidh. That's gotta smart!"

Through the morning chill that bit through clothing and fur, Juniper found himself sweating, even though he had not properly dried since emerging from the river. Dànaidh was putting quite a lot of pressure on him; it was getting to be more than the otter could handle. His jaw ached, but he refused to rub the pain away, instead letting it disperse on its own.

"I dinnae want t'hurt ye, June," Dànaidh said, turning his paws up in deference.

Juniper shook his head. As much as he wanted to, he couldn't back down, not now. His mind raced. He had to abandon the prizefighting hare in favor of something a little more … Dànaidh-ish. If could pull inspiration from the hedgehog, perhaps it wouldn't hurt so much, and he wouldn't feel so intimidated.

"Ach, me fair laddo," he said, adopting the hedgehog's highlander accent. "Ah'm thinkin' it's me that dinnae be wantin' t'hurt ye!"

"Oh, look at that! Seems like the rookie's got a second wind! See him tackle that hog?"

"Aye, Gergreg, though it's almost as though Dànaidh allowed it, just to bring the fight to the ground."

It was mass confusion following that. Juniper wasn't sure what was up or down, where his punches were going, or where the hedgehog's were, either. All he could tell was that he was receiving just as much as he was delivering, though he wasn't sure how much was truly being reciprocated. Vague shouts drifted to him through the bewildering haze.

"…that's the advantage of having a rudder…"

"…didn't know you could do that with a quill…"

"Go for his ribs, Junebug!"

Stars exploded in front of Juniper's eyes. He backed away—when had they gotten to their footpaws?—and shook his head, trying to awaken himself from the constricting daze. His muzzle hurt, that was the first thing he noticed, followed in quick succession that his nose was leaking a warm and wet fluid. He licked his nose, sure that it was a bit of snot or water that had been knocked loose from his earlier swim, when a bitter, metallic taste hit him. He took another step back and brought a paw to his face.

It was painted in blood.

"Ooh, and June takes a nasty bop on the nose," he heard Gergreg say.

"Aye, poor bloke. Decided for his next act to turn himself into a fountain," replied Gergreg.

There was sniggering all around him.

Juniper smiled as he grappled with his nose, a hesitant, uneasy smile, that extended only towards his facial features.

"Oaw, laddie, dinnae mean t'hit ye so hard," Dànaidh said. He sounded legitimately concerned.

"Ah, a haha." The otter tried to laugh, but the sound came out broken and hollow. His head was swimming. He could feel his heart race in his chest, and he took a few deep breaths in a desperate attempt to calm himself down. Otherwise his heart might explode. It wasn't working. With each inhale his heart quickened its pace, until his head was throbbing, pulsating with every beat. Dark splotches began invading his vision, threatening to overcome it. Juniper tried to focus, spinning his world around until his eyes settled on Hector, the fox's coat as flamboyant as the cart's canvas. The otter felt like he was going to sick up.

"Are you all right, June?" said a voice; Juniper didn't know whose.

"Y—yeah," he said, swallowing the bile that was beginning to rise. It was getting darker. "No, no worries, mate. Just need to…"

The world was spinning as he opened his eyes. The colors were off, he noticed, and he could not recognize the faces that were circling around him until they had morphed into their respective animal. Fox, hedgehog, hare, ferret. Then the color corrected itself, and distinct faces came into focus.

Juniper pushed himself off the ground, his mind in a fog. "What, what happened?"

"You just kind of keeled over, there, chap," Fjord said.

The otter nodded as the scene slowly came back to him.

"His nose is still leaking," Daskin said.

"Is it?" Juniper asked. He brought a paw to his nose, and noticed the red that glistened over the dark brown splotches. His paw was sticky. Then it hit him.

"What's the matter with you?" Juniper yelled, turning to Dànaidh. He was surprised at the ferocity in his voice, and it was hard for him to sit still, he was so mad. The otter shook in an attempt to dispel the surge in energy.

The hedgehog frowned. "Ach, I'm sorry lad. It seemed like ye cudd take et."

Take it? Dànaidh thought he could take it? What did that even mean? No, Juniper didn't want to know. The otter was livid—he could barely see straight, and he wasn't sure if that was because of his anger or because Dànaidh had knocked something else loose that he wasn't aware of. "Why did you hit me like that?"

"Come off it, June. He was only playing around," Hector said.

"Are you sure about that?" Juniper's tone said that he obviously wasn't. "Because I don't think 'playing around' involves busting a beast's nose!"

"So he got a little rough. Don't worry about it." The fox was grinning as he offered him a patchwork pawkerchief. "Here, tie this off."

Juniper snatched the piece of cloth from Hector, his paws shaking as he tried to wrap it around his nose. It took him a little while, but he eventually managed it, with a little help from Fjord. The otter frowned. Dànaidh had no right to hit him like that. No right at all. His head swam as he tried to recall the order of events, and how they had led him to lying on the ground with a busted nose. He couldn't figure it out. When had the hedgehog stopped playing? What was the matter with him?

"Come on, we need to get going," Hector said, looking at the sky. "We've lost enough time as it is."

Both Dànaidh and Fjord offered a paw to help Juniper rise, but it was the hare that the otter ended up allowing to help, leaving the hedgehog to shrug and go to the cart.

"Are ye ready t'shove off?" he asked Juniper once they were in position.

"Aye," the otter replied, dull and monotone, albeit a little nasally. He heard the hedgehog sigh.

It was rare for Juniper to take such a rotten attitude, and he had to quell the pang of guilt that hit him because it was the principle of the matter. The otter suppressed his own sigh as they began their trek. It was going to be a dreary day.


	23. On Melancholy Hill

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 22. On Melancholy Hill  
**

_by Cecil_

Dead.

The word seemed to hang in the air like laundry on a clothesline, constantly being echoed throughout the halls and corridors of Redwall Abbey by both woodlander and vermin alike.

_But it cannot possibly be true, can it?_ Cecil thought as he slumped down under the shade of an oak tree, his blue eyes wide in disbelief as he watched a group of moles digging the hole that would become Abbess Dittany's grave. There was an explosion and beasts were dead, that's all he knew. The hundreds of other graves being dug that morning were proof of that, but that didn't matter. He had run outside to see what the commotion was and...

There she was. Blood covering her habit, a long wound etching itself down her midsection where... _it_ was. She was dead. No, not just dead... but murdered! It was almost impossible to believe. She had been alive and flourishing only a few hours before and now… she was… she was...

_"I think I owe you a new lute," Dittany joked, leaning over and kissing the bard lightly._

Cecil chuckled and returned the kiss.

"Get dressed, you cad, before somebeast else comes," she continued, sticking her arms through her wide habit sleeves and pulling the garment over her. She straightened its hood and reread the label on the envelope that Skipper had given to her.

"A letter?" Cecil asked, pulling on his breeches and placing his cap on his head. "That's what that entire ruckus was about? Do beasts normally 'wake you' in the heat o' the night simply to deliver a letter?" The squirrel crept up behind the abbess and looked over her shoulder. "Who in the blazes is it addressed to that makes it so bloody urgent?"

She flipped the letter over before he could get a decent look at it. "It's abbess-business, Cecil. 'Tis none o' your concern."

Filled with curiosity, he twisted around her and peered at its smooth surface. "Oh, come now, love. Surely you can allow me to take a quick peep? You have_ shown me other important documents before, as a matter of fact."_

"Cecil." The no-nonsense tone snapped him back to full seriousness. "As I said, it's abbess-business. 'Tis none o' your concern."

"Very well, my love, if you feel that way, I shall not meddle." The bard flopped down on her bed and sighed.

Dittany put the letter in her habit pocket. "Don't worry, Cecil, this will only take a moment," she stated, reaching for the doorknob. "Enjoy the party, love, it won't take long."

With wide, loving eyes, Cecil Sassafras watched as his love walked out of the open doorway to deliver the mysterious letter. Turning around, she gave him one last smile.

She shut the door. 

She was gone. Gone… and she wasn't coming back.

Somebeast had murdered her. Why would anybeast want to do that?

And… and…

Cecil buried his head in his paws and wept.

_It's all my fault, _ Cecil admitted to himself. _If I had not allowed her to leave, if I had offered to deliver it for her, then she would still be… _ He brushed away a tear. _ Why couldn't it have been me?_

Sobbing, the squirrel glanced up at the funeral proceedings.

The abbess was being buried by a great ash tree in the garden. A cluster of rosebushes surrounded the base of its trunk, the flower's brilliant red hue giving them explicit contrast to the bard's morbid pallor.

Cecil grimaced.

Dittany never did like roses. She always said that they were too extravagant, yet so simple that they seemed devoid of any real emotion. Giving a maiden a rose, she'd say, was like eating a scone without any meadowcream. She preferred simple flowers that still had life ebbing from them. Lilies in particular.

The bard wiped his eyes and dropped his gaze as a rabble of beasts tread by, muttering all sorts of gossip about Dittany's death.

"I can't believe it, kin yew?"

"Aye, Skip says she was murdered. Prolly one o' those vermin who did 'er in. It'd be just like 'em t' do this. I'd keep an eye on 'em if I were Skip."

Cecil tried to shut out the depressing commotion. He didn't want to hear any more than he already had.

"Well, yer fergettin' 'bout all those beasts who disappeared last night. Some of 'em were goodbeasts. I hear there was a squirrel, a 'hog, an otter, and a hare among 'em."

The squirrel's ears perked up. A hare? Fjord? _But that cannot be possible. Fjord is the most trustworthy beast I've ever met. How could he be a suspect?_

"Ah, hadn't thought o' that. But, I'll tell ya now, it was a vermin who really did it. I kin feel it in my bones."

The woodlanders moved away, leaving Cecil speechless. Somebeast had murdered the abbess. It couldn't be Fjord, of course, but there were beasts running amuck everywhere in Mossflower. And one of them had killed his love.

One of them was guilty.

_And I promise to find out who, my love._

Casting one last glance at his love's funeral and saying a silent prayer, Cecil lifted his trusty lute over his shoulder and left Redwall Abbey and Redwall City behind.

-.0.-

With the warm, midafternoon sunshine beating down upon his back, Cecil marched carefully through brush and undergrowth, cutting a comical figure as he lifted his footpaws high with every step to avoid the stinging nettles and ivy. He grimaced, hearing the distinct sound of ripping linen as a thorn-briar snagged his leggings and tore into the thin, colorful fabric.

Cecil took one quick, agitated glance back before slowly easing over and attempting to loose the treacherous underbrush from his trousers without causing any further damage.

_Shhhhrrrrrrkkk._

The squirrel's blue eyes widened to a frightening degree at the sound. He clenched his teeth and made an aggravated snort, easily removing the briar from the newly-ripped canyon in his garb. He sighed and pressed on, whistling a quiet tune and occasionally breaking the melody to rant his thoughts aloud.

"Pah, a mere thorn-briar cannot stop me! For this squirrel is a master of the forest. No, not a master of the forest, not even Lord of the Forest. But _King_ of the Forest! Yes, perfect." He hoisted his trusty lute over his shoulder and guffawed, barely having the chance to notice an oncoming tree root.

Cecil felt his right footpaw thud against the rough, hard root. Immediately, the world spun as the squirrel stumbled. Flailing his arms, he struggled to keep his balance, saving himself right before he crashed into the base of an oak tree.

Panting, the bard turned to his assailant. He pointed an accusing claw at the root. "Psst, you foul root! How dare you attack me! I am Lord Cecil Evan-rude Sassafras the Second and tripping me is worse a crime than theft… no, worse a crime than _murder._ Back in _my_ country, I could have you hung… er, hanged for your insolence!"

The root said nothing.

"Bah, silent, are we?" the bard continued. "A wise choice, Sir Root."

Cecil stopped talking and dropped his accusing paw, a look of dismay plastered on his face. "Oh 'Gates, I'm beginning to sound exactly like my father." He changed his tone immediately. "Sir Root, I am dearly sorry. I was not injured, so I have no reason to be chiding you, I feel. So, I shall put this behind us and…"_before I make somebeast think I'm crazy_, "take my leave."

He turned to depart, taking a single step before he tripped over a second root.

Cecil clenched his teeth. "Working together, are we?"

He got to his footpaws and brushed off the loose dust. "Look at me," the bard huffed, "I'm talking to a bloody root for Dark Forest's sake!" The squirrel slumped back to his knees and gave a mock chuckle. "Oh, Dittany… if you could see me now, I'm sure you would have a good, heartfelt laugh. Me talking to a root. Aye, you would. You would definitely lau-"

The squirrel was interrupted by a comedic crack as something rock-hard smashed into the back of his skull, his head slamming down from the recoil.

"Ah, give it a rest, would you? You're making my ears bleed."

The bard, rubbing at where the projectile had made contact, turned around, eyeing his attacker scornfully. The anger faded from his face.

It was a squirrelmaid, a sling twirling loosely in her paw from where she had just released a projectile.

Cecil couldn't help but to take in her features.

She was beautiful from her head to the tip of her tail, her auburn fur complimenting the fiery scowl that seemed permanently fixed to her face. The clashing of her forest green tunic against the red hue of her pelt brought the bard a spark of realization.

Cecil tried to fight back the waves of joyful tears. Without hesitation, he blubbered, "D-D-Dittany!"

If the squirrel had wanted to get any further, it would have been impossible. Before another breath escaped his lips, another one of the rock-hard projectiles smashed against his tear-stained face, knocking him back to the earth.

Dazed from the blow, Cecil groaned and staggered to his footpaws. He picked up the squirrelmaid's weapon from where it lay on the dusty ground and examined it. "A scone?" the squirrel said. "Dittany was never the type to bake."

Another scone ricocheted by his footpaw. He looked up at the squirrelmaid. "Of course I'm not bloody Abbess Dittany!" she shouted, loading another pastry to her sling. "By the Fates! I see a lad talking to a root and about to burst into tears, and I decide to help him get them out, and what do I get in return? I get compared to a snot-nosed little hussy who somehow became a bloody abbess!" she harrumphed. "I don't even look anything like her!"

Cecil quickly deflected the next edible projectile with his lute. Taking in a deep breath, he tried hard to hide his disappointment. He wiped a wet eye with his sleeve. "I-I am dearly sorry, miss. 'Twas my mistake. You do, however, bear a… similar image… at least in the face. I suppose you _are_ a tad thinner than her though. Will you… accept… accept an apology?"

A newly-launched scone ripping the feathered cap off of his head was the response.

"I shall take that as a no."

The squirrelmaid scowled and stomped away, muttering curses under her breath.

Seeing something tucked away securely in the back of her belt, Cecil grabbed up his cap and followed quietly, struggling to keep an even pace with her as she made her way swiftly through the forest, hopping over tree stumps and pushing aside limbs with surprising agility.

The bard's eyes began wandering, his sight eventually settling on the squirrel's hindquarters. He grinned.

_"You're the only fair maiden that I shall ever love. I shall not stray or wander, I promise you this."_

Cecil instantly tore his gaze away, shutting his eyes tightly. _No!_ he shouted in his head.

He had promised Dittany.

The bard cracked open his eyelids, angling his head down so all he could see were her footpaws.

"Oof!"

Cecil couldn't stop himself from bumping straight into her backside as the squirrelmaid halted her stride abruptly and glared daggers at him.

"Why in the blazes are you following me?" She scowled. It sounded more like a complaint than a question.

He blinked. "Err… you see, miss," he started, trying to come up with something that she would believe. He swiftly retreated to one knee and tilted his cap. "A young maiden, such as yourself, should never travel through the forest alone. Please, allow me to be your guide, young miss."

Cecil looked up and realized his mistake.

She was older than him.

"Err, please allow me to be your guide…madam," he corrected himself. His eyes drifted to the roll of parchment tucked in her belt. "I am quite sure that I can be of some assistance."

The maid chuckled. "You seem to be awfully interested in my map." She grinned. "Surely you're not… lost, eh, featherhead?"

Cecil frowned and eyed the large feather that adorned his cap. Why did everybeast call him that? "No, my lady," he lied, "I am not. For, I'll have you know, that I am a master of these woods. I've lived in them my entire life, you see. Getting lost would be an insult to my family name."

"Oh, really?" she scoffed. "And what family name is that?"

"The noble Sassafras house of Raymont, Southsward," he answered obliviously.

"Southsward?" the maid replied. "I thought you lived in _these_ woods your whole life."

"Err, well, I… I was a master of those woods so I am surely a master of these woods as well," he answered, taking a tentative glance back at the map. "After all, I _am_ a squirrel, miss…" He drifted off. This was the part where she would give him her name, just like in all of the theater performances he had been dragged to as a child.

The squirrelmaid said nothing.

He frowned. "_Miss_…" the bard said again, emphasizing the word more heavily.

She cocked her head.

"Miss!"

"Aya?" she finally said.

"Thank you," Cecil replied. "After all, I _am_ a squirrel, Miss Aya."

"Ah, yes, you have a point there." Aya pulled the parchment from her belt and unfurled it nonchalantly, holding it at an angle that made it impossible for the bard to get a glimpse of it. She traced a claw on its surface. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "So we keep heading this way."

"Which way?" Cecil clamped his mouth shut instantly.

"Heh, a squirrel who's in desperate need of a map."

Cecil held his chin up and sneered, "Very well, Miss Aya… I am in need of a map… but not because I'm lost… but merely because I have misplaced my own."

Aya smirked and continued moving. "Maybe you should check inside that cap of yours. It certainly is big enough."

Cecil harrumphed and followed after the squirrelmaid. "You certainly are a _charming_ young lady."

"Well, Mister… Cecil was it? I certainly _do_ try." The baker rounded a tree trunk and grabbed a haversack from where it lay by the roots. "Shelton! You finished resting those widdle paws of yours?"

A stoat, presumably Shelton, grabbed up his own haversack and threw it over his shoulder. "What? You can't blame me for wanting to take a break. All beasts get tired, Aya."

All Cecil could do was watch as the two beasts began arguing amongst each other. "Yes, well every second we waste, those scumbags we're chasing are getting further and further away," Aya sneered.

"Well, at least I'm not the one who's wandering off and bringing back strange squirrels," the stoat argued. He nodded at Cecil. "Shelton," he said simply.

The bard tipped his cap. "Cecil Sassafras."

Aya pointed a claw at him. "I thought he was one of them!"

"How could you possibly think that?"

"Not to quell your argument but… did you just happen to mention that you are pursuing the beasts who may have murdered Dit- the abbess?" Cecil asked politely.

"So what if we did, featherhead?" Aya replied.

"Well, miss, I just so happen to be in that same pursuit."

Aya raised her brow. "Oh, you are, are you? Well then, if you're thinking of sabotaging our pursuit, then you'd better go back to taunting roots. You might get hurt."

Cecil scratched his chin. "And what would possibly possess me to interfere with you pursuit? I merely wanted to know if I could join you in your pursuit. Three heads are better than two… or I guess six paws are better than four would work better in this scenario, but-

"Hah! What would possibly make me want to let you join us?" Aya said with a sneer. "That'd just lose me more of my reward money! Not happening, feather-head. It's bad enough that I'm letting Shel here split it with me, but you as well?"

The bard cocked his head. "Reward? Hrm… that's interesting. I didn't know of such a thing," he stated.

Aya's jaw dropped, and Shelton shook his head.

"Told you before, I only need enough for a change of clothes," Shelton muttered, glancing down at his worn and torn attire. "But you really haven't heard of it?" he asked of Cecil.

"Of course not," Cecil answered. "I never pay any attention to such trivial affairs. I have far more important matters to deal with than money."

"As do I," Shelton said cheerfully, letting the sack on his shoulder sag to the ground with a wince. "Not everyone's as mad as you, Aya."

"He doesn't know anything about the reward?" Aya repeated to herself, disbelief in her voice.

"Well, seems not," the stoat answered patiently.

The squirrelmaid turned to Cecil. "If you don't know anything about the money, then why the 'Gates are you out here? Picking daisies?" Aya asked.

"Not necessarily 'picking' daisies, but rather…" Cecil started, "I'm wondering why a certain abbess is pushing them. The reward does not matter to me. What matters is that Dittany, the Abbess of Redwall," _and the love of my life,_ "is dead and…" _Even if I make a fool o' myself. Even if I die trying._ "I want to know who did it."

"Why exactly is that?" the squirrel sneered.

"We were…" Cecil gulped in the truth. Dittany had been a very well-respected and loved abbess. Mentioning anything about their relationship would be the end of that. "We were friends… that's all.

His attention snapped to the two. "Miss Aya. Mister Shelton," the bard said, "I have a simple proposition for you. If three beasts turn in these suspects, I'm sure that we will get three times the reward, split between the three of us. You seem more interested in it than me so, I am willing to give you my portion if I can travel with you." He extended his paw. "Deal?"

"You'll be fine to give her your portion?" Shelton asked, casting a sideways glance at Aya. "I _do_ think we could use the company, Aya."

Cecil nodded.

With a light smile on her face, the squirrelmaid gazed at the stoat in silent agreement.

Aya extended her paw.

"Welcome to our group, featherhead."


	24. Riverdance

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 23. Riverdance  
**

_by Fjord_

The sun was edging toward bright-and-bothersome when the troupe broke through the trees and came upon the River Moss. The broad swath of blue cut across Mossflower, her waters pulsing as new shoots thrust out from her muddy banks. In the early Spring of Reconciliation, ice still held her prisoner in places. Some five badger-lengths west was such a pact, a translucent sheen covering its cloudy surface.

"Take a moment," Hector said. "I'm going to have a look at that."

A collective sigh rose from the troupe as they all flopped down on the grass. Fjord glanced around at his new traveling companions, eyes lingering a bit longer on his fellow woodlanders. Juniper was trying to convince Silver to play leap frog – whether out of a keen sense of self-preservation or a priggish demeanor, the kit was refusing – and Dànaidh had acquired a stick that he was using to scratch something on the ground. The hare held no great affection for a beast who went about bloodying others' noses for sport, but he thought it best to make a go at camaraderie. He was stuck with this lot for the time being, after all. Well, not stuck, per se, but Hector had made the rather astute observation last night while explaining the situation that Fjord would do well to have assistance on his trek to Salamandastron should they encounter any pursuers.

The hare stood and trotted over, smiling. "Wot's this, then, old top?"

The hedgehog belched, then twitched his snout before replying, "Just a bit o' this 'n' that. This's a tree 'n' that's th' cart," he said, laughing. "S'posed t' be, anyway. Need proper charcoal t' do 'em justice."

Fjord waited, staring at Dànaidh for a long moment. Then, he prompted, "Excuse me."

"F'what?"

"That's wot a gentlebeast says when he relieves his tummy as such: 'Excuse me,'" the hare explained, leaning in. No need to embarrass the fellow further. "Ladies about and all that, eh?" He used his ears to point out Thera and Alastia.

"So?"

The hedgehog was edging from forgivably ignorant to outright dense. "Manners, sah. Best for a chap to mind them when in the company of more delicate creatures."

Dànaidh leaned in further, glancing from side to side, then whispering, "Are ye delicate, lad?"

"Wot? Oh! No, not me."

The hedgehog slapped Fjord on the back with enough force to knock the wind out of him. "Then what's th' probl'm, longears?"

"Th...at... That was uncalled for... sah!" the hare said, puffing.

"Ah, lighten up. Ye worry s'much on appearances, yer fav'rite parts are like t' shrivel from the pressure." He grinned, jerking a claw downward.

"Could you _be_ more crude?" The dancer turned his nose up and crossed his arms.

"Prob'ly."

The hare bit back a retort. Reasoning with the oaf was never going to work, but perhaps something more physical would capture his attention. Dropping to the ground Fjord spun, sweeping his leg out toward Dànaidh. With a snarl, the hedgehog rolled back and came up with his fists held at the ready.

"Ye lookin' fer a fight, lad?"

"Hardly." The dancer rose as well, a sneer touching his lips. "Just cleaning up that appalling mess you made on the ground, wot." He pointed to the scuffed patch of dirt where Dànaidh's drawings had been. "Can't have anybeast following seeing that, eh? They'll think we were performing so sort of pagan sacrifice."

"Where's this 'lady' o' yers, then?" The hedgehog scowled as he nodded to Fjord's left paw. The hare's wedding band glimmered in the play of light off the water. "Run off with a beastie who 'asn't got 'is 'ead stuck up 'is arse?"

"She's at Salamandastron, where we're going," Hector broke in, approaching from the bank and clapping his paws. "All right, ladies and gentlebeasts, let's move out. The ice looks well enough to hold us. Lucky it's still so cold this early in the season. I reckon any beast as might come following us from Redwall will be looking on _this_ side of the river on account of our cart. We cross over; we throw them off. Simple. Straightforward. Thera, Alastia, Silver, inside. The rest of you, get to pushing or pulling."

"All this because of that hare's letter?" Alastia grumbled as she climbed up. "What's in it, anyway?" A beat. "Well?" It took a moment for Fjord to realize she was talking to him.

"Wot? I don't know."

"You haven't even read it?" Hector asked, eyebrows making an acquaintance with his ears as they shot up his forehead.

"I... I haven't had a chance."

"Ye've 'ad all mornin'," Dànaidh pointed out.

"Well, what business is it of yours?" He ignored the wildcat in favor of the hedgehog as they rolled down the bank and out onto the ice. "You probably can't read anyway. Need somebeast to do it for you, eh?"

"Lad... I might talk nae s'fine an' fancified as y'self," the hedgehog scoffed, "but I ken me letters, 'n' at least I've the brass 'n' tacks t' read a note what's addressed t' me. 'Fraid o' what ye'll find?"

"It's not about 'brass and tacks', you boob. It's about privacy and respecting that my wife would take her dagger to my ears if she caught me reading her splendiferous and sweetly scintillating words in such disreputable company, wot!"

"Ahhhh..." Dànaidh stopped pushing, which caused everybeast else to pull up short for the show. "S' tha's 'ow 'tis. Known a few 'n me time, aye. Thought ye might be th' sort from th' look o' ye, but I'm nae th' type t' judge."

"And wot sort is that?" Fjord asked, unable to resist baring his teeth just the tiniest bit.

"Yer whipped."

"Wot?" His contempt shifted to confusion, and he laid his paw on the prop at his side.

"Whipped," Dànaidh repeated, a crooked smile carving a new scar on his face. "Tail-tied. Apron-strung. Sparrapecked. Gelded as a harem lad."

Fjord's ears and cheeks burned. "That... you... You don't know anything about me, sah!" He had to suppress a cringe as his voice jumped half an octave.

"'Spect I know enough."

"You... you presumptuous... Ugh!" No obscenity was crass enough to capture the brute's audacity. The hare sputtered into silence, clenching his paws into fists and jutting his ears and chin forward.

"Ye just gonna stand there snarlin' an' lettin' him talk t' ye like that, matey?" Juniper edged up behind Fjord, close enough for the hare to feel the heat from his body. "Can't even stand up fer yerself proper. What would Saffron think?"

"Mary." He tried to step away, but the otter's paw snatched his shoulder and jerked him back. The fight went out of the dancer as soon as he thumped against the actor's brawny chest. It occurred to him that Juniper was a head taller when discounting ears. "I-I say, old chap, you're a bit close."

"Not close enough t' make ye see what a fool yer bein'," Juniper hissed, the nasal quality of his battered nose all the more sinister. Tiny church bells of alarm sounded in Fjord's head. This was familiar – menacingly so. "Go on an' show 'im what sort of 'coward' ye really are."

"Aye. Show me, longears."

"Oh, lay off of him, you two," Silver butted in, peering out from the cart. "If he doesn't want to read it, he shouldn't have to." Fjord blinked at the ferret. He'd have expected a snide comment or snicker from the little prat, but support?

"Lettin' a kit fight yer battles f'ye, then?" Dànaidh cocked his head to one side, then nodded. "Might've expected as much."

Juniper's whiskers and bloody pawkerchief were tickling Fjord's cheek now as he leaned over the hare's shoulder. "Just gonna let him walk all over ye, matey? Ye know what ye should do. Go on an'–"

"Fine!" Fjord could feel his hackles rising and heart thumping faster as the hedgehog and otter pressed in on him from either side. He ducked down and spun from Juniper's grasp with more vigor than he had anticipated, the ice adding its assistance. A hard stamp, scratching his claws across the slick surface, ended the impromptu pirouette. "F-fine, you blinking blighters. I'll read it, wot!"

The hare shoved a paw in his pocket and withdrew the envelope, cursing the hedgehog and otter to a life of cold soup and no apricots. Raising it up, he spotted a smudge of brown on the ivory face that obscured the 'd' in his name.

_'D' is for Dittany..._

She had been so bright, so fierce, so full of vim and vinegar the night before – perhaps too much so for Cecil's own health and safety. The bard had the most peculiar tastes, really. Then again, the whiskers on the left side of Fjord's face had only just recovered from their clipping at the paws of Mary's throwing knives. But peculiar tastes or not, his friend's lover was now little more than a blotch of discolored memory – the ashen residue after the campfire.

_Oh, Cecil, I wish I could–_

"C'mon! What's takin' so long?" Juniper punched him in the shoulder, jolting Fjord from his morbid revelation. The hare started when he realized that the entire troupe stood staring at him: the Gergregs leaning on the cart's side, Silver, Alastia, and Thera peeking out, Envie humming beside Hector, who focused his gaze on the far bank, but kept his ears swiveled toward the trio of woodlanders.

"Can't rush a performer, wot! Just preparing my voice. Ehem!" It was one thing dancing for an audience when he could rely on his whip and batons to draw part of their attention, but to be stood here with nothing but dead air and a troupe of vermin – and might-as-well-be vermin – leering at him? Sylvi had never prepared him for this dance. Where was the dust? He settled for an improvisational tap dance on ice.

Pulling the letter from the envelope, he had to admire its very _Mary_ form. It was folded precisely – two creases straight across dividing the paper in three equal parts – a simple reminder of his wife's military mannerisms. He hesitated – _I... I shouldn't have this. I was chasing Dittany... I must've caught her, and then...?_ – but a knowing smirk playing about Dànaidh's maw spurred the fire dancer to action. He flipped open the letter and read, "'Dear Fjord, I'm writing to let you know something important. Something you should know and that I wish I could tell you personally. I've gone to Salamandastron because the Long Pat–'"

_Criiick_.

"Wot was that?"

The answer presented itself directly as the entire ice pact shuddered and popped like an overworked joint, dark fractures racing each other to surround the troupe. "The cart's too heavy," Thera realized, her breath catching in her throat. "Oh, 'Gates!"

"Move!" Dànaidh roared, rushing to the back of the cart with Juniper as Fjord stuffed the letter back in his pocket and jumped to the front, but too late. With a crack not unlike a whip, the fissures around them deepened, then widened as a floe of ice broke free from the shelf. Hector's Acting Troupe found itself adrift on the River Moss.

"Damn it!" Hector growled. "Gergreg! Envie! Grab the wheels!"

"Oh, this is just perfect," Alastia moaned. "I didn't even want to cross the river in the first place."

"I really don't think now's the time to be expressing such sentiments, miss," Fjord advised, clinging to the front poles for security. "Wot are we going to do, then? Paddle?"

"No, that'll take too much time. June, think you can slip in and nudge us toward shore?"

"Um..." Silver raised his paw. "I don't think that would be a good idea."

"No. Definitely not, wot," Fjord agreed, grimacing at the sight that lay ahead.

"Oh, and why's... that...?" Hector trailed off, the roar of rapids gobbling whatever else he might have had to say that didn't involve a shout.

"We're going to die," Gergreg decided.

"Like doornails," Gergreg concurred.

"Shut up and let me think!" Hector snarled. But, glancing back, Fjord could tell by terror plastered across the fox's face that he had no idea what they could–

_Ships steer using rudders. Otters have rudders._ "Juniper, sah! You're an otter!"

"An' yer a hare, what of it?" The hare wasn't sure if the otter was being serious or just playing one of his ridiculous parts, mindless to the hazards before them. "'Cause if we're havin' a contest, then—oww!"

"Now would be a fine time t'carry on, lad."

The vicious torrent was drawing them in much faster than anticipated. "Juniper! Get on your knees, stick your tail in the river, and go stiff."

"What good will that do?" Silver asked.

Dànaidh had caught on, though. "Aye. Quick thinkin'. Ye jist hold firm, lad. I'll guide ye. Longears, call out th'–"

"Right!" They entered the rapids and immediately a struck a boulder, rebounding into another, their glacial raft already three-fourths its initial size. "To the right, I said!"

"Give us a bit o' warnin', ye daf' rabbit!" the hedgehog shot back.

"I'm a hare, wot wot!" Lovely. Now he was echoing his wife.

"Same difference!"

"Left!" A rock shaped like a badger choking a fox loomed ahead, white water spewing to either side of it. "Left! I said _left_, sah!" They slammed into it, a wheel-sized piece of ice parting from the side as everybeast scrabbled to maintain his grip on their slippery raft and hold the cart's position at the center of the floe. "Your other left, you ignorant boor!"

"Ye want t' try yer paw a' steerin' this rig wi' an otter who don't know a paddle from a pawsock?" Fjord could envision the sneer on Dànaidh's face, and scowled in return. "'Cause I'm more than 'appy t' trade."

"Oh, no, sah! You're doing a simply smashing job. Emphasis on the _smashing_, wot!"

"Are all adults out here this moronic?" Silver demanded, clinging to a rack of costumes inside the cart. Thera and Alastia tried to hold down the rest of the troupe's supplies while Hector, the Gergregs, and Envie wedged their arms and shoulders into the wheel spokes to keep them from turning. "Do you really think fighting is g– Aaaahh!"

The ferret launched from the cart, floundering through the air like an albatross drunk off its eyes, before smacking into the water belly-first. It was a bit impressive, finding just the right angle to flop like that. The take-off had been appalling, though. "Aghlugg!" the kit cried.

_Right._ Dying tended to cast a pall on the points system. Still, posthumous awards were a fine thing, if a bit tactless.

"Hold the cart!" Fjord shouted to Hector.

"What the 'Gates do you think we've _been_ doing?"

"Oh... quite right. Well keep up the good work, sah!" The hare performed an awkward half-spin, swinging along the cart's poles to the edge where he was met with Alastia's frightened features. She was clinging to the wood, her claws sunk in, and her tail saluting the cloth ceiling. "Hold onto my arm."

"No."

"Please?"

"No!" she snarled at him, baring her fangs, sharp as icicles.

"Silver's going to die if we don't help him!"

The wildcat sneered. "Serves him right."

Fjord's ears fell back and his paw shot out, grabbing one of her wrists and wrenching it up. She yowled and scratched at his face, but he set his jaw and held on. The ice floe bucked again. Dànaidh hollered at him for direction. Alastia caterwauled. Silver drowned a little more. He didn't have time for a show.

Digging his own claws into the actress elicited a splenetic hiss. "He might be a clever brat, miss," the fire dancer growled in turn, "but he's a member of this troupe. Let go before I catch him, and I swear by all the damnable villains in Hellgates I'll make it my jolly business to haunt you to your grave, wot. Silver!" Fjord raised his voice again, but remained glaring at the wildcat until she dropped her eyes. Satisfied, the hare twisted to face forward while jerking his whip free from his belt. He felt Alastia holding him steady. In the river, Silver flailed, his hat plastered over his eyes, and his muzzle alternating between squeaking and gargling.

"Silver!" _Fates, let him hear me!_ "Silver! Catch hold, old chap!" The hare snapped the whip just to the right of the kit's head and let it fall into the river beside him. Silver seemed to notice it, struggling to grasp the lifeline.

"_Daskin look out_!" Hector's warning came too late as the ferret was swept lengthwise into a boulder, bouncing off of it, and making no more sounds.

"Right! Right!" Fjord shouted to Dànaidh and Juniper. The raft lurched, the cart tipping up as the hare tried again, cracking the whip and – Silver's paw shot out and grabbed it. The ferret's head surfaced, then his upper half as he sunk his claws into the charred length of cord and pulled.

"He's got it!" The hare resisted the urge to kick up his heels and dance, opting instead to drag the kit toward the relative safety of the ice floe by tooth and by claw. Another buck jerked the ferret from the water with a slurp. He landed hard on his back near Fjord's footpaws, but it didn't take him long to catch his second wind, flip over, and scramble up the dancer's leg. He clung like a limpet... a soggy, frigid, shivering limpet.

"I say, sah, that's not the b – Left!" Another rock reared from the rapids. Perhaps not killing them all could take a bit more of his attention. "Are you deaf, you bloody hedgepig? Left!" Another mass of ice made a bid for freedom and was swept away as they bounced off the rock. This time, though, it helped to steady them. The cart's wheels thumped down, splintering the ice floe even more than the river's beating. "Lef..." The hare trailed off in his next command.

"What? Speak up!"

The falls ahead weren't high, perhaps a bit shorter than Silver, but they were enough. The jagged peaks guarding it on either side were also _more_ than enough. Time to make a decision. "Straight on!" With the turbulent waters propelling them every faster, the raft shot between the jagged sentinels and out over the tiny waterfall, landing with a _sploosh_, upright, mostly intact... and no longer rocking crazily.

"We... we made it! Hip-hip!" Gergreg cried.

"Huzzah!" Gergreg finished. Fjord decided he would have to sort their names and faces sometime soon.

_Wot kind of beast gives identical twins the same name?_ he wondered. _Vermin._ A very simple answer.

The dancer took a moment to survey the course unwillingly taken. For their part, the rapids snarled at him, a snaggle-toothed beast spitting froth and bellowing for the meal it had been denied – _No thanks to that appalling steering, wot!_

With an exasperated sigh, the hare directed his attention to Silver – or Daskin, or whatever his name was.

_Poor little chap._ The ferret continued to hug him tight, his eyes squeezed shut and his body shaking. He had seemed so confident last night, giving the hare a good dressing down on the chessboard, but now he was just a kit. _Where are your parents, eh?_ Still, as tragic as his predicament might be, he was making balancing difficult.

"You seem to be quite attached to that leg, sah, but I'm afraid I need it back." A bit of prodding, and Silver-Daskin detached himself, skittering back to Juniper and Dànaidh before Fjord could lift him into the cart. The hedgehog stopped the ferret with his footpaw before he could slide off. That problem dealt with, the hare took to assessing his own state: Drenched, cold, a bit hoarse, but alive. Alive was positive.

"Hahaha!" Juniper laughed. "That was mad. At least now we know it can't get any wor - mmf!"

Fjord whipped his head around and saw Silver stuffing his hat into Juniper's maw. The young ferret's eyes were threatening to leap from their assigned sockets and his quivering whiskers flung icy droplets every which way. "I tried to stop him! _I tried_!"

A torrential gurgling at the fore caught everybeast's attention.

"Aw, shite..." Dànaidh groaned.

_If I don't look, it can't be real. It just _can't_ be. 'S wot M'am Lura always said, right? 'Head in the ground, scut in the air, and not a beast can touch you', wot!_ Fjord stared hard at Silver, recalling the asinine assurances of the Hollyhocks matron, his father's first wife, and begging the Fates that the dotty old windbag was right. Then, his footpaws slipped, and he was forced to turn as he scrambled to maintain his purchase.

_Oh, _come on_! That's just not fair._

A swirling vortex of water lay ahead where the river slammed into a lake. As they watched, it sucked down a chunk of ice preceding their glacial raft and vomited it back up some distance away. It was smaller than before with a new set of chips in its glossy surface that, had they been on a beast, would have redefined the phrase 'bloody 'Gates'.

"Juniper, sah?"

"Mmf?"

"I rather think I'm beginning to hate you, wot."


	25. Two's Company

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 24. Two's Company  
**

_by Aya_

"And then she had me thrown out. For the fifth time."

"Five times, eh? Now I think, with a little change of focus, that's five times you could have really had a good night's rest. Why worry about one tough nut in a tree full of fresh fruit?"

Aya could just _hear_ the wink that Shelton gave Cecil as he spoke.

"And what would a _stoat_ know about trees and nuts?" she called back over her shoulder with a snort for emphasis.

"Well, not as much as you," Shelton replied affably, "though what I do know I may have learned from a lady squirrel or two."

"What... eww!" Aya said, shaking her head to clear away the mental images beginning to form.

_Males._

"Really? I hardly dare to ask," Cecil said, frank curiosity in his tone.

"Well, there was one occasion, in a town up north; I stole an invitation to the party of a fabulously wealthy hostess who inadvertently seated me next to her own sister..."

"I don't believe this!" Aya exclaimed, attempting to interrupt the anecdote in time to preserve her sanity. "Have you two really forgotten why we're here? Fireworks? Explosions? A _murder_?"

Cecil's eyes hooded, a gloom visibly descending on his formerly cheerful countenance. Shelton, however, was unabashed.

"It's all wrapped into one adventure, after all; what's the harm in sharing a bit of good advice learned from experience?"

"I don't care about your adventures," Aya retorted, "and I certainly don't care about your 'good advice.' I care about one thing and one thing only right now: catching up to those blasted disappearing actors and bringing them back for my reward!"

There was a short, strained silence, awkwardly broken by Cecil's voice.

"So, what happened next, Shelton?"

The friendly chit-chat between Cecil and Shelton was getting on Aya's nerves, but at least Cecil had ceased staring at her as if she were a specter from Vulpuz. After a couple of hours of tramping through the woods, in fact, she was surprised to realize she'd blocked the inane chatter so effectively that she hadn't noticed it had stopped. Risking a glance over her shoulder, the squirrel saw Shelton trudging along with a downcast, thoughtful expression, and Cecil…

"Tree!" she snapped, stopping his forward impetus just short of a springy young ash sapling. The bard blinked, thanked her, and then resumed his poring over a piece of parchment, thoughtfully nibbling on a quill pen. Aya rolled her eyes and continued along the path of least resistance that she knew must eventually lead them to the lake. If the three of them needed fresh drinking water, then certainly the troupe would as well. If she could cut through the woods fast enough….

"Hmm, this song is just begging to be written," a voice from behind her mused aloud, "but I simply cannot think of a good rhyme for this line."

"Really? You need that right now?" Shelton asked, stopping and raising an eyebrow. "I'm sure I could help, what's the line?"

"Well, it just needs to end in a rhyme for 'said,'" Cecil replied, "but I've already used several good words."

"How about 'dead?'" Aya said sarcastically, rounding on them and running a paw over the hilt of the knife in her belt.

"Oh, that's perfect, Miss Aya!" Cecil said happily, jotting it down with his nose nearly on the parchment in the fading evening light. "Thank you, that will do wonderfully."

Aya gaped for a second. There was simply nothing to say to someone so dense, and the stoat's soft snicker did not help.

"We'd better make camp," she finally managed to say. "It's too dark to see where we're going. Don't expect me to tuck you in!"

Aya woke early the next morning, her limbs slightly stiff from the cool dampness lingering under the trees. She snorted when she saw the two males still sound asleep

_ "I must be getting soft at the Abbey. But logs have nothing on those snoring lumps! I bet they don't even have any food for breakfast. Serves them right." _

A few minutes of prowling around the campsite provided the materials Aya needed. Squatting on her haunches, the squirrel applied a few deft strokes to her flint block with the back of her knife and let the sparks alight on the papery wrapping from a shedding birch. A few more tries and a strengthening tendril of smoke rewarded her efforts. A minute or two of tending, and a nice little fire was crackling in the dry oak twigs she'd gathered.

Aya next took a thick, rectangular strip of birch bark and pinch-curled into a rough bowl, then pegged it with a twig. The squirrel took a pouch from her rucksack and poured some of its contents into the bowl. After some hesitation, she poured another portion, then a third. Grumbling slightly to herself, she emptied the contents of her canteen into the bowl and stirred the thickening acorn porridge over the low flame.

_"If they pass out, it'll just slow me down on the chase. And I do need the extra paws… why'd there have to be so many bloody actors?"_

That was the trade-off, of course. Aya would have much preferred to not have to share the (substantial) reward; it would allow her to set up her own bakery in any town she desired, and maybe even have a separate house to live in. But she'd seen the number of performers and noted the wiry strength of the hare, and had to admit that the prospect of "convincing" them to return to Redwall was a daunting solo task.

_"And then there's that hedgehog. Skipper said he was a tough customer. Well, that'll make my day that much more interesting when I finally lay eyes on him. We've got to hurry if we're going to catch them, though!"_

The porridge was steaming by now, so Aya gingerly left the bowl propped between some roots while she doused the fire with damp dirt. When she was sure the embers were dead, the squirrel wiped her paws on her tunic and turned her attention to her slumbering companions.

"Wake up! Food's hot!" she barked.

The two leapt upright, the stoat narrowly edging out the squirrel in terms of self-composure. Aya smirked at the downcast look Cecil wore upon observing the breakfast bowl she'd retrieved.

"Miss Aya," the bard began, "I would never disparage your cooking abilities, but would you be so kind as to explain exactly what that dish _is_? And thank you."

"Acorn porridge, and it's the best you're going to get while that troupe's ahead of us," Aya replied while shoveling wooden spoonfuls of porridge into her mouth. Finishing her third of the bowl, the russet squirrel held it out to Shelton, who took it gingerly.

"I need to find fresh water," Aya said as she wiped her spoon on a leaf and replaced it in her pack. "Follow my trail when you're done."

Aya took off at a gentle loping pace, a smile twitching on her muzzle after she glanced back and saw the two males eyeing each other warily over the bowl of partially-eaten porridge.

The lush stillness of the forest abruptly gave way to gently lapping water and thick, cold mud as the trio reached the shores of the lake. A faint smell of decay arose from the shoreline where reeds and cattails created stagnant pools. Small ripples and a few thrashing, bubbly splashes hinted at life (and death) taking place beneath the cerulean lake waters in defiance of the fading grip of winter. A few chunks of ice bobbed near the efflux from the river, a remnant of colder climes closer to the stream's source.

Aya blinked in the newly-unfiltered sunlight but waded into the icy water, her teeth chattering slightly as she filled her canteen with water from a small eddy. Hopping back to shore, the red shook herself off and then stood stock still, her ears swiveling as distant sounds coalesced into shouting voices. Shading her eyes, she peered upstream, and then scampered up into a tree for a better view.

"Hoy, Shelton! Feather-head!" she called down to the two, who were just breaking through the underbrush to the shoreline, "There's a cart coming down the river!"

_And it's those blasted actors, I'll wager anything. If they manage to kill themselves before I can claim my reward... _

The fragile vessel was buffeted mercilessly against the rocks scattered about the mouth of the river, the panicked cries of its occupants growing more audible by the second. Even as Aya and her companions loped along the lake shore on an intercept course, the ice-raft crested a small waterfall and seemed to settle, still spinning, in a calmer path -but one leading directly to the mouth of a whirlpool just downstream. They could now make out the figures on the cart-the hare clinging to the front of the cart, the hedgehog

"There's no way that cart will survive! We've got to get 'em out before they drown or freeze!" Aya gasped out before breaking into an all-out run.

"Get rope, cords, belts, anything you can!" Shelton hollered, slowing but already rooting in his pack. Cecil followed his advice and removed his belt and vest. Aya shrugged off her pack and undid her belt and sling, whipping them together in a quick knot and tossing one end to Shelton while quickly affixing the other to her ankle.

"Anchor me!" she yelled to him. Any further preparations were preempted by the ear-splitting crack of wood stressed beyond its limits, the victim of one of the most vital and yet most deadly substances in existence. The cart disappeared briefly below the water before bursting to the surface in shards, its occupants were flung into the ice-strewn waters in all directions. Large and small beasts alike, they clung to what fragments of wood they could find within reach of their flailing paws, fighting against the insidious tug of a slow, agonizing death.

The shock of jumping head-first into the frigid water was so violent that, for a moment, Aya could not tell which way was up. Her lungs burned in defiance of the cold surrounding her, but her thick fur temporarily prevented the deadly chill from reaching to her bones. A tug at her ankle, and Aya had her bearings again. Surfacing, she swam as quickly as she was able in a direction downstream of the whirlpool, aiming to snag any survivors too weak to make it on their own.

_With my luck I'll end up with the hedgepig, of course._

In the water ahead, Aya saw a beast floundering for purchase on a wheel formerly attached to the cart. The wheel slipped away, and with a shuddering cry the hapless victim disappeared beneath the waves. With a muttered "damn!" Aya inhaled deeply and dove. Below the surface, the water was a thick shade of blue, filled with rocks and silt that pinged against her fur. She could barely see in the murky filtered light, but a stream of bubbles was enough of an indicator. Her searching paws met flailing ones, and the drowning creature instinctively wrist-locked and held on for dear life. With her own lungs burning for air, Aya let out a gasp and kicked with all her might in the same direction as the resulting bubbles headed.

_Air. I need air!_


	26. Thievery is About Taking Turns

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 25. Thievery is About Taking Turns  
**

_by Monika  
_

Monika had always hated Redwall's wine cellars. They were damp and spongy underfoot, and they always smelt of fermentation and rot. The hamster folded her paws sternly, trying not to think about what she might just have stepped in. "You wanted to see me, Mister Skipper?"

The burly otter gestured to an upturned barrel. "Take a seat, Miss."

Monika vainly attempted to look down her snout at a beast nearly twice her height. "My name is Monika."

"Right then, Monika. Wot-"

"And I'll stand, thanks."

Skipper clutched at his head. "Fine. Now, I'm sure ye've 'eard about..."

"About the Abbess?" _Oh, I'll wager I was one of the first. Nearly stepped on her, coming down the dormitory stairs. Had to take the side staircase on my way out..._

The otter nodded gravely. "Me 'n' some of the leaders are tryin' to sort out exactly wot 'appened in all the ruckus. You were in the Great Hall, weren't ye?"

"Well, I was in the dormitories when the explosions went off -"

The otter held up a paw. "Belay a second, there. You were supposed t'be workin' scullery for the feast. Wot were you doin' up in the dormitories?"

"Er..."

-=-=-=-

Monika surveyed the Abbess' quarters, her snout creased in disapproval. _For an esteemed Abbey ruler, Dittany doesn't seem to place much stock in cleanliness. The bedsheets are all rumpled, there's clothing strewn about everywhere, and stray bits of fur all over the pillows._ The golden hamster sniffed reproachfully. _You would think she'd never heard of a comb._

Now, then, if I were an Abbess hiding a sword of inestimable worth in my room, where would I put it?

After an embarrassing wriggle, the sword was found not to be under the bed. _Hrm. Perhaps the wardrobe? It makes sense, sort of. An enclosed space within a private room, housing a sword that nobeast is supposed to know isn't where it's supposed to be..._

Pudgy pink claws riffled absently through a series of dowdy garments. _Fates. And I thought that these green habits were unfashionable. These wouldn't even do justice as dishrags._

Moni scratched her head. _Curse it all. Curse it all to wherever accursed things least wish to be accursed to._

She looked about. There wasn't much else. An old chest squatted in the corner, but it wasn't long enough to fit the sword in, even diagonally. There was a small vanity with a mirror, which Monika couldn't stand the thought of looking into, a table with chairs, and a screen to change clothes behind. There was a lute there, too. Monika considered taking it, but luting couldn't hold a candle to looting.

_I guess it's not here, then._ The hamster hung her head in despair.

And something on the floor of the wardrobe caught her eye. A hinge. She prised the drawer open.

=-=-=-=-=

"Well, you see, I helped Aya deliver a pot of soup to the feast, and I spilled some on my habit. So I went upstairs to change it."

Dubiousness was written all over the Skipper's face, so Monika elected to go on the offensive. "Hey!" she cried indignantly. "You pond-jumping otters may not value cleanliness so much, since you've always got duckweed in your trousers, but I value my cleanliness! I had nothing to do with what happened to the Abbess."

Skipper held his paws to stem the tirade. "Whoa, belay there! So ye like t'be clean. That's... fine."

"You had better believe it is!"

"Alright," he said diplomatically. "Ye sure you don't want to sit?"

"Quite." Truth be told, sitting would have been quite preferable. But, sitting with a sword strapped along the length of one's spine is not a good idea. Especially if the sword is a stolen one. Especially especially if the sword's former owner has been murdered.

Skipper tried to nudge the conversation back towards its original point. "So, ye got a justly-deserved clean 'abit. Then wot 'appened?"

"Then I heard the blast from outside, and I rushed downstairs to see what happened."

"An' then?"

"As soon as I reached Great Hall I got hit, by some great big bloaty splodgy fat squirrel."

=-=-=-=-=

_Unkh!_

Monika smacked into the wall, followed by the floor. On the second impact, pain seared up from somewhere behind her right flank. Martin's stupid sword had sliced her! The golden hamster eased her way upright, muttering something decidedly unladylike. "Watch where you're going, fattytail!" she shrieked at the disappearing blob. It reached the lawn, and vanished into a haze of fire and smoke.

All about the Abbey, Moni could hear the sounds of disaster: infants shrieking, beasts hollering, wood crackling, stones crumbling. To the golden hamster's ears, the sounds all mingled into a single "Thud" – the door slamming shut on her plans. Dittany was dead. Beasts were fleeing, and something had exploded, and something was on fire... and there was a whole lot of blame going to be handed out.

Then she saw the lizard, carrying the replica sword.

An idea presented itself. It was stupid. It was reckless. But she forged ahead anyway, because stupid and reckless was a sore sight better than "Abbess killer".

Monika pointed through the smoke at the slinking reptile, and shouted, "Stop! Thief!"

The words felt new and strange on her tongue.

=-=-=-=-=

"And then Corsenette and some others rushed in and took the sword from her." _Proving that for once it's better to be the shouter than the shoutee._

Skipper nodded. "Y'know, the lizard claims that she wasn't stealin' the sword. She was tryin' t'get it to one o' us for safekeeping."

Monika rolled her eyes. Given that the one was lazy, this created a rather unique experience for the Skipper. "She rushed towards me! I'm just lucky that I managed to fend her off."

Skipper raised his paws in mock surrender. "I'm not sayin' I believe 'er. I'm just sayin'. It kind of makes sense. After all, what sort of mad beast would want to steal Martin's sword, and invite the world o' trouble that'd go along with it?"

=-=-=-=-=

There is a trick to thievery, and that is that thievery, in and of itself, is the trick. And, as any trickster will tell you, the more often a trick is used, the less effective it is. Thievery, being a trick, is therefore better when it is done less often.

To put that another way, stealing is like alcohol. Both provide one with a warm, rosy afterglow; both satisfy a deep inner longing; and, more often than not, both inspire fits of insipid giggling. Most importantly, both alcohol and thievery must be partaken of with caution. Failure to exercise caution can lead, in fortunate cases, to the novice spending a stuporous night in a dark alleyway. It generally leads to alleyways in the unfortunate cases, too, but the sleep there generally tends to be more permanent.

To put _that_ another way, greed is the thief's worst enemy. Greed will tell the thief to overload their sacks to an impossible weight, or to hang about a dangerous situation just long enough to pilfer one more bauble. Greed quickly turns a thief into a prisoner. In some cases, the prison is a literal one. In others, it is prison constructed from the detritus of un-fence-able spoils shackled to their ever-grasping claws.

To put that _yet another_ way, without moderation, thievery is reduced to an exercise in collecting useless objects and death threats. After all, thievery is about getting things. And things that one gets become things that one has, and there's no fun to be had in simply having things. After all, it may initially be rather prestigious to have stolen an object of unspeakable value, but then one runs into the issue of possessing an item that nobeast will want to buy and everybeast will want to steal. The item in question must then be kept safe, which means it can never be used or shown to anybeast, and it becomes nothing more than a trouble-summoning dust collector.

Monika knew all of this. She didn't quite know how she knew it. But she knew it. Which meant that she also knew, deep within the dank and gloomy corridors of her mind, that stealing Martin's sword was a bad idea. After all, the sword was legendary. In her limited out-of-scullery time, Monika had stumbled through the Abbey's historical records as far as her limited vocabulary would allow. Redwall's recorders chronicled many tales of warriors going far and wide in search of that sword, should it ever go missing. And they always, always got it back. Usually by prying it from the cold, dead claws of the foe.

From a practical standpoint, it was even worse. She couldn't use the sword as a weapon (unless she could somehow get prospective enemies to simply run into it and skewer themselves), nor could she sell it, and she could never bear to give the thing away..

Which is why she was not stealing a sword.

What she was stealing was far more valuable. Something nobeast would ever think to think of as lost, because it wasn't actually a _thing_. Things were useless. Trinkets and baubles – even the wondrous sword – would eventually fade to dust, but she had taken something immortal, which Redwall's warriors could never hope to wrest away from her. She had stolen a legend. A place in the Recorders' books, all her own.

She wielded the sword, and therefore the next chapter in the legend. Martin, Matthias, and Mattimeo would have a Monika writ alongside them, forever linked in the lineage of that magical sword. However the story might end, Redwall could never forget Monika Koval, no matter how hard they tried.

=-=-=-=-=

Monika snorted. "I don't care what Missus Vikkeyragger says. She was stealing the sword, and I stopped her. You should be grateful for that."

"Alright. You did stop 'er, and we are grateful. You're not bein' accused of anything, Monika. We just needed some o' your facts to help us get things straight. And, in fact, I'm thinkin' you might just be one o' the beasts we need to 'elp out."

"Help you?"

The otter nodded. "There's about a half-dozen beasts went missin' just after Dittany was killed, and we're lookin' to 'ave 'em brought back, so we can get t'the bottom o' this. Most of the search groups have headed out already, but you might be able to join up with one of 'em if you're quick. That squirrel what hit you, she's one of the ones we're after, so if you think you can track 'er down, there'd be a nice reward in it for you."

Monika smiled. Offering her a reward was like offering a shot glass to a beast holding a keg. But it would give her a wonderful opportunity to make good her escape. She had been planning to simply wait until all of the hubbub died down and slip away, but official permission to leave was far better. By the time they figured out that Martin's sword had gone missing, she'd be well over the horizon.

She shook his gargantuan paw. "Thanks, Skipper."


	27. There's Nothing Cheaper

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 26. There's Nothing Cheaper Than Something That's Free  
**

_by Vikraja  
_

Vikraja was just happy to get out in one piece. Sometimes you had to learn to treat the small victories as big ones and try not to think of the big ones as life-damning catastrophes.

Her firesticks _were_ great. She just had to reveal them in a more open, less flammable environment. And somewhere far away from Redwall, where nobeast could equate them with the scarring experiences of last night.

These thoughts, admittedly, were in the back of her mind, scrounging through attic keepsakes. The main thoughts, still re-arranging the upset knicknacks on the foreground shelf, were along the lines of Ella, the little weasel now tunneling through her wares like an earthworm in the soil. And even more importantly, Ella's lack of diaper and obvious need for one.

She'd barely pulled her cart past the outskirts of Redwall City when she stopped and opened up the back end. She acted as if in a trance. Eyes closed tight, she moved with pure muscle memory.

"Alright," she whispered. "It'z going to be alright..."

She cracked an eye open. She breathed out; a winter solstice miracle! Her cart was more or less as she had left it when she'd allowed the weasel to deposit the kit inside. That was the good news. The bad news...

Ella was not in sight. Whimpering, Vikraja clawed through the scarves. Empty. Nothing _smelled_ worrisome... Her firestick crate was still shut tight, but she checked it anyway. No baby weasel.

Vikraja prided herself on keeping if not a clean cart, then an organized one. The floor of her cart was visible. Her wares were pinned up along the sides of the walls, dangling from the roof, stacked neatly against the front. There simply was not any other place for Ella to be hidden. Except...

"Oh, no."

She peered into the cauldron of cocoa. There hadn't been that much left, but she'd no time to clean it out. And now, yes, there was a miniature little dizeazel snoring away, her dress entirely dampened with the remains of last night's cold chocolaty drink. Even worse, in this particular situation there was no telling if Ella had heeded nature's call. Certainly it didn't smell as if she had. But who knew what sort of smells fuzzy creatures could come up with? They were always mystifying her.

Nevertheless, she kept her tongue firmly between her jaws. It was some other beast's problem. Or it would be, once she found some other beast.

"Hold up there!"

Oh, good...

Vikraja turned, smiling thinly. Her smile wavered at the sight of the strange, fuzzy, near-tailless rodent, but froze in place at the sight of Skipper behind her.

"Yez?"

"We thought it best," Skipper said, panting slightly, "if'n ye teamed up."

Vikraja flicked her gaze only briefly to the ugly rodent. If only the otter had meant "steamed up"...

"That won't be nezezzary," Vikraja said. She clamped her jaws tight, momentarily frightened. Her voice had sounded so odd just then, high-pitched and squeaky.

Skipper blinked, looking between Vikraja and Monika.

"Jinx?" Monika suggested.

"I don't have any," Vikraja snapped.

"I insist," Skipper said. "In fact, I'd highly suggest ye catch up with th'other team that went out earlier. Those actors've got numbers on their side. Several vermin, a young otter, nearly full-grown I'd wager; a hare-perilous beasts, hares-and a very violent hedgehog. Now either one o' ye two ladies cares t' go up against that lot on yer own, be my guest, but don't expect me t'bring flowers every year."

The otter sighed, looking past the city at the Abbey. "I'd come with ye, but Redwall..."

"We understand, Skip," Monika said, patting his paw. Vikraja felt some of her dinner curdle. _Little zuck-up!_

"Right," Skipper said, drawing himself up again. "Remember, just track 'em down. No need for heroics! Wait 'til they're holed up, then bring word back, or if ye've managed t'get with the others by then... just... be careful out there, right?"

"You don't have to tell me twize." Vikraja sniffed.

"Leave it to us," Monika crooned.

Skipper saluted them and began the trek back to Redwall. When he was out of sight, Monika whirled on Vikraja-and Vikraja whirled on Monika.

"Now lizten here, you-"

"Alright, here's the deal-"

They scowled at each other.

"I'm not going to take-"

"Don't mess with me, or-"

They fumed.

"You're juzt a little clump of duzty-"

"You big scaley menace to society-"

They stamped their lower extremities.

Wordlessly, Vikraja moved to the front of her cart and began hauling it off again. Monika stormed after her, her gait decidedly odd.

At their frantic pace, it was not long at all before they caught up to the two weasels on the road ahead. Faye glanced at them only briefly before focusing her attention on the dirt in front of her. Darron tugged her along at a fair clip, paying no attention to the rattling cart behind him. Vikraja hissed to herself. What a foul beast. Just one quick- _snap_! It was a better ending than he deserved.

"Psst."

Vikraja ignored the hamster.

"Psst!"

"Lzzt."

"_Psst_!"

"What?"

"That's _him_!"

"Who?"

"Him! The weasel-the murderer! One of them, anyway. The suspects."

Come to think, Vikraja didn't really know who she was looking for, except they were a cartful of actors.

"Are you zure?"

"Am I sure, of _course_ I'm sure! Male weasel, black tunic, seen hanging around a female weasel in a grey dress. The descriptions match up perfectly."

Vikraja tested the air with her tongue.

"I don't know... it might have been another weazel." She couldn't shake the image of Dominic clawing his way along the hallway toward her hiding spot, screaming for help, the otter hot on his heels... As much as she found herself to like the odd little fellow, she couldn't find herself blindly trusting him after what she'd found in his wake.

"Bezidez," she said, "that one wazn't there when the abezz waz murdered."

"That's what they call an alibi," Monika said, tapping her nose. "Which is just a way of saying a clumsy excuse to be excused. Not there when the murder happened? Where was he, then? Means, motive, opportunity. Er... opportunity, at least. No one saw him. No one saw the murder. Two and two, lizard."

"Hmm. He could have... znuck back inzide?"

"Oh my word, you do have a brain in there after all."

"Lzzt! At leazt I'm not a hunchback."

"What?"

"You have zomething in the back of your clothez."

"Do not."

"Do too. It'z bulging."

"Mind your own... hunchback."

Vikraja paused mid-smirk. Something clanged in the back of her cart. She lowered the tongue carefully and crept around, dreading.

"No, no, no, no, _NO_!"

She reached out, grabbing the sopping cocoa-covered weaselmaid by the tail. Hefting Ella up, she dragged her out of the cart. The weasel hung upside-down, too busy chewing on her cricket prize to complain about her treatment. _Good luck charm my tail!_

"You!" she screamed, waltzing back to the front of the cart to waggle the kit at the two weasels ahead. "Come back and take thiz... thing!"

The female reached a paw up to her husband's arm, but he'd already whirled around at Vikraja's shout.

Darron's confused, angry, squinting face gradually melted into what Vikraja could only assume was a wry grin as he trotted closer.

She realized that maybe this wasn't the best course of action to take. She glanced at Faye, who was desperately tugging Darron away. He cast her aside with a simple flick of his arm.

The cricket in Ella's jaws went _crunch_. The monitor's resolve solidified. _Not my problem!_

"Well?" she said, yanking the kit higher. "Take it."

"It's not mine." Darron shrugged and turned away. "Keep it."

"Give her to me," Faye said, glaring. "Don't hold her like that!" She snatched Ella and snuggled her close. Darron snorted.

"You're not bringing that bastard home tonight. Drop it in a ditch."

"I'm taking her back to Dom."

"Hold on!" This was Monika. "You're not... Dominic?"

Darron threw up his paws as if releasing the doves of frustration unto the heavens.

"No," Faye said quietly. "Dom's Darron's brother. Why? What did Dominic do? Did he really..."

"He might have," Vikraja affirmed.

"We don't know for sure," Monika said.

"What?" Darron said, coming back. He thrust his neck forward, grimacing. Or was that just how his face usually looked? Vikraja couldn't tell. "What'd he do?"

Faye and Vikraja avoided each other's eyes and held their silence. It was the hamster who spoke up. Completely oblivious the little beast was.

"Killed the abbess. Possibly. He's one of the suspected murderers, you know."

Vikraja could have packaged the tension in the air into little parcels and sold it.

"Is that so?" Darron said. He grinned. Then he laughed. "Never figured him to grow a spine! _Right_, then, my dear... let's go get our reward then, shall we?"

Vikraja grabbed her cart's tongue poles, narrowing her eyes.

_Not if I have anything to zay about it!_

end of week one. _  
_


	28. Only the Good Die Young

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

start of week two. 

**Chapter 27. Only the Good Die Young, But the Awesome Live Forever  
**

_by Monika  
_

All was greyness and misery the day that they buried Ellie.

The fractured circle of grey cowls huddles around the earthen mound, staring. Solemn silence reigns, broken only by the faint cadence of spring rain. Droplets are swallowed into the clothing of the bereaved; they drip from ragged hems, pool about blistered footpaws.

"Poor Ellie," says one of the hooded figures, eventually.

"Yiss," replies Patrice, the head maid. Her accent is thick, foreign. Monika can never quite place it.

Monika says nothing, just continues staring downwards. The rain begins to worm its way through her sodden hood, and trickle at the back of her neck. The hamster grimaces, but makes no move to wipe it away. Her paws, like the rest, are still caked with mud and clay from the digging.

They stare at the grave. The rain falls. In some cases, it mingles with tears.

Eventually Monika manages to force the question past the lump in her throat. "What do we do now, Patrice?"

Beneath the cowl, the large shrew wife's eyes are weary. "What you mean?"

"What will we do, for the rest of the day?"

The shrew's eyebrows narrow. "What are you talking about, Koval?"

Monik takes a long, rattling breath. "Just answer me, Patrice."

"I don't know. We say goodbye. We go back to work, maybe."

"And what about tomorrow?"

The hated words spill from wrinkled lips. "We work."

"Just like that? Without Ellie? Nothing changes?"

Monika looks around. Several pairs of glistening eyes stare at her.

"No," says Patrice. "We figure out a way of doing her work as well as our own, unless Master Lacrimosa hires a new beast to replace her."

"But we'll still do the same chores, right?"

"Yiss."

"And what about the day after tomorrow?"

"The same."

"And the next day?"

"The same."

"And the _next_ day?"

"The same!" Patrice explodes.

"Will we ever stop? Ever?"

"What?" the shrew asks, confusion and annoyance scrawled across her face.

Monika's voice rises in pitch, accelerating recklessly towards a screeching crescendo. "We never will! You know it! Nothing will ever get better! We're going to spend all day, every day, working our paws to the bone, sweeping and dusting and polishing ornate woodwork, until one day our beloved Master decides his bloody _tea_ isn't _warm_ enough, and bashes our heads in with a _walking stick_!"

"Shut your mouth, Moni."

"It happened to Ellie, and it'll happen to us! And we'll probably be so cowed that we'll kiss the ground and thank him!"

Belying her age, Patrice moves swiftly. The head maid's paw lashes out, whipping Moni across the cheek. Gnarled paws dig into the hamster's cloak, pulling her close.

"I know she was your friend, Koval," the shrew hisses. "I _know_ this. But look at yourself. Shouting! Carrying on, like an infant! You help nothing with this display. Nothing, Koval! Ellie is dead. You cannot change that. Everybeast die, sometime. Ellie, you. Even me, some day. You learn that, and you will be happy."

Monika shivers bitterly, refusing to meet the shrew's gaze. A tear of resentment spills down her cheek.

_It's what happiness is when you're a servant, isn't it? Happiness isn't good things, just a lack of bad things. If you're bad, you're whipped, and if you're good you get to work your paws to the bone one more time. And then you try it again tomorrow, and hopefully you're good then, too. And then there's another tomorrow, and another. And then you hope to rack up nothing but good tomorrows 'til you're dead. You're a servant when you're born, and you're a servant 'til you're grey-furred and ancient, as long as you don't anger the master. That's all of it. Birth to death, nothing but "Yes'm, yessir, right away." And, no matter what you do, you end up in the Dark Forest. And even then, you're probably still a bloody servant, because you can't know anything else to be..._

"Everybeast dies." Patrice's words echo through the hamster's mind. They echo as the other maids eventually shiver and leave the gravesite, heading back to their drudgery and toil. They echo as the rain slows, and eventually gives way to a gloomy sunshine. They might never stop echoing.__

Everybeast dies. Yes, but not everybeast lives. We haven't lived, really, not a day in our lives. And Patrice and Stacella and Cathlean might be content to stay here and dig their own graves, and die alone and forgotten, but I'm not going to. Not ever. I'll make my own way, and I'll do whatever it takes to survive. And, one day, everybeast will know who I was and what I did.

And above all else they'll know that I, Monika Koval, lived.

=-=-=-=-=

Monika loathed them all. The young whelp had a high-pitched voice that grated on the hamster's nerves, the quiet one was about as interesting as the third leg of a cricket three leagues away, and the other one, Darron, was... something altogether different. "Brutish and vile" didn't do him justice, much in the same way that "wet" does not adequately describe the ocean. Vikkeyjigger had been deplorable to Moni for just about the whole day. The lizard kept making snide remarks about the 'lump' in her habit, and accidentally-on-purpose treading on the back of Monika's sandal, causing her paw to come out and get covered with muck.

She loathed them all. They were useless, a bunch of nobodies going nowhere.

And so, when darkness fell and the rest went to sleep and the stars came out to play, the sole somebeast went somewhere.

More specifically, she went somewhere to die.

Her suicide would be puzzling to the rest. But, logically, it was the only option. Deep down, in the deepest recesses of her heart, Monika knew that. She'd figured it out a long time ago. Martin's sword was a death sentence. Either she was going to get slain and have it taken from her, or she'd live the rest of her life trying to hide it. And either way, nobeast would ever believe that a pudgy little hamster had managed to do what so many rampaging warlords could not. There was only one way to take control.

So, she would cement it for them, in her own blood. Slice herself open and spill her blood, becoming the first beast in the sword's history to willingly commit suicide with it. And nobody could ever deny that she'd taken it, because how else could she have done so?

It wasn't the most brilliant plan. Fine. Monika was far from the most brilliant thief. It made sense, in a profoundly stupid sort of way. And, even if it didn't, so what? Sense wouldn't change anything. Not now.

The one hitch, of course, was Monika herself. She had gone over this in her head a jillion times, traced little invisible lines just here and here, figured out where best to cut so that it would be over quickly. But... she didn't want to. Not really.

She wasn't ready to go. There were so many things to do, so many adventures to have... but there was no time. The sand had all run out of the hourglass.

She found herself a seat, somewhere where the sun would shine in the morning, and brilliantly contrast her golden fur against the dew and blood. After all, you only die once. No sense making a rubbish show of it.

The sword was pulled out, and Monika admired it in the moonlight. This was her crowning glory, her swan song, her exit cue. It wasn't especially beautiful, really. It was just a thing.

"Everybeast dies," she whispered softly. Sooner or later, ready or not, they all did. Perhaps she was ready. The swordpoint quivered atop her midriff, waiting to delve into fur and flesh.

But she couldn't. Tears began to come. She needed to do this. This was what gave it all meaning. And she couldn't do it. She was too afraid, too greedy to release her grip on that painful ensnaring web of hurt and fear called life.

"I could have done so! Much! More!" She cried the last words, forcing them out of her lungs. Her throat felt raw.

So much more.

There would always be more, wouldn't there? Always more to covet, always more to clench her paws around and shove into her sack, always more to feed to the deep insatiable monster in her mind. The monster that dangled happiness on a stick in front of her, and lead her to believe that all she needed was this one last shiny thing, this one last act of vengeance, and things would finally be okay.

But things would never be okay. She knew that, somehow.

She raised the sword again.

"Everybeast dies."

Her gaze flicked from the handle to the blade. The more she looked at it, the more she despised it. It wasn't right that something so artfully crafted should be used for such evil. But nothing was right. Nothing could ever truly be right in a world where beasts were born to slave their entire lives away in service to other beasts, just because of how they'd been born.

Life. Death. Do. Do not. It was time to choose. Monika cast a wry glance at the sky. The twilight pastels gave no indication one way or the other. Pity. But that's life.

There was a sound like rending silk. A tear dripped into the scarlet and was swallowed.

And in the moment, there was everything and there was nothing. And there was a new dream, taking the place of the nightmares of the past. She saw it all.

=-=-=-=

Everybeast dies. Monika, like every living soul that is or will be or ever was, died. But she did not die under the tree. When the others came looking for her, they found only the sword, with a the message "I don it" crudely scrawled in scarlet along the blade. They might never see that a small "M" had been carved into the hilt, in a shadowy recess where it couldn't be filed away. Just in case.

So, where did she die? Perhaps she stumbled off somewhere into the bushes and died in a pool of her own blood. Perhaps she died many years later, having staggered off with a paw clutched to a superficial wound on her abdomen, idly consoling herself that it wasn't cowardice that stayed her paw. No, not cowardice, but a sensible survival strategy, wisdom that lesser beasts could never understand.

Whether the legend of Monika Koval ends here, nobeast truly knows. But here is where the storyteller solemnly packs up his quills, tips his hat to his fellows, and bids a fond adieu.

And that, dear rearder, was that.


	29. As Long As He Needs Me

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 28. As Long as He Needs Me  
**

_by Faye  
_

"Has anyone seen her?" Faye looked down the trail, squinting to see if there was any sign of Monika further ahead.

Vikraja shook her head, flicking her tongue out with apparent distaste. "How should I know? Ztupid thing probably ran off into the woodz and got lozt."

"Well, she can't be far," Faye replied. "Darron and I will go looking for her, can you take Ella with you and look for Dominic's house? It shouldn't be too far up ahead. We'll meet you there soon."

Vikraja shifted, confliction dancing in her eyes. "Fine," she said with a pout. "But thiz iz the lazt time!"

The sun continued to rise over the woods as Faye pushed through the undergrowth, trying to make out anything that might prove to be something other than a tree. "Monika! Monika! Where are you?"

Darron stamped along behind her, lashing out at the occasional bush. "I don't know why we're even bothering. If she's crazy enough to just run off I don't see why we have to waste time looking for her. It's not like we're getting paid to bring _her_ back."

"We need to stick together, Darron," Faye chided. "I'm sure you'd want her to come looking for you if you were lost."

"I wouldn't be stupid enough to _get_ lost!"

They had been searching for some time now, and there had been no sign of the missing hamster. "I suppose we should head back, Ella will be getting worried."

Her husband rolled his eyes at the mention of the kit. "I don't know what part of that rotten brain of yours makes you keep her around," he growled. "The little bastard's a waste of time, she's slowing us down. Should have just let the lizard kill her when she ate that bug, she clearly wanted to."

"How dare you!" Faye spun around to face her husband, her eyes flaring. "She's a defenceless child who needs our help until we can reunite her with…"

"With who? Her murdering father? My useless killer of a brother who you seem so enamoured with?" Darron looked like he was barely keeping his fists in check.

Faye blushed without even realising it. "Now you're being silly, Darron. You know I love you, I always have." _Forsaking all others…_

~

_"I can't believe he did this to you," Dominic muttered as he dapped Faye's bleeding nose with a pawkerchief. "That's going to be an awful black eye by morning."_

Faye sighed. "He'd had a hard day at the yard. Couple that with several drinks at the tavern afterwards. He doesn't mean it, really."

"How can you say that? He just chucked the dinner you made against the wall and... and did this to you, then went and passed out! He hasn't changed, not one bit."

"I still love him, Dom, you know that."

Dominic sagged his shoulders. "He won't stop, Faye. One of these day's he'll go too far." He paused, as if unsure of how to phrase his next sentence. "You could... you could always come with me. We could just leave Mossflower. Just the pair of us. And Ella. We could go just far away enough where he can't hurt you anymore. We could be one family, and..."

Faye cut him off with a raised paw. "Dom, you've very sweet, and you're doing a wonderful thing raising Ella, but I promised to love Darron faithfully. I can't just up and leave him alone, he needs me and I need him."

"But, Faye, I lo—"

"I think you'd better be going, Dom."

Dominic sighed, his face forlorn. "It's going to get worse. It's your choice, but... if you ever decide to get out before it's too late, I'll always be ready for you."

"I'll be fine, Dom, I promise. You'd better be getting back to Ella."

~

Darron laughed coldly. "I know my idiot brother's been making eyes at you for years! I've seen those pathetic looks he gives you when he thinks I'm not looking. How many times have you snuck off with him then, eh?"

"Darron, you know I've never betrayed you like that, I never would!" Faye exclaimed, horrified at the accusation.

"Shut your trap!" Darron growled. "I'm sick of your protesting and acting all innocent all the time! I know you want him. It's just your newest failure. You're an utter failure, wench! Can't even give me any kits? Maybe I should just give you to him and take a wife that can do her job!"

Her husband's cruel outburst finally pushed Faye over the edge. "Failure?" she laughed, "Failure? I carried every one of those kits! Every one was healthy, and every one I gave away to a loving family in exchange for a still-born. I just had to keep them away from you!"

Darron seemed rooted to the spot for a moment. His expression shifted from shock, to incredulity, to dark fury within a matter of seconds.

"You _bitch_!" he screamed, "You traitorous bitch, _I'll kill you_!"

Faye barely had time to cry out before he was on her, powerful fists knocking her easily to the ground. She struggled to evade him, but the blows were just raining down incessantly. Gasping for breath, she tried to drag herself away from him, but a series of savage kicks in the gut brought her to a stop. Unable to resist her husband's assault, Faye curled up and tried desperately to weather the storm of blows. A vicious kick to her head sent her vision swimming.

"I'm sorry, Dom…" she murmured, before sinking into blissful unconsciousness.

Still the blows kept coming.

~

Faye wandered across the meadow, feeling the crisp grass beneath her footpaws. Shadowy trees seemed to drift past her, and she felt like she was looking for something as she walked. Suddenly she seemed to be in a part of the forest she recognised. Five weasel kits were happily playing in a small clearing. They looked up as she approached, smiled broadly, then ran to her and piled into a hug. Faye felt almost indescribably happy.

"Hello, my darlings," she whispered, a tear of joy running down her cheek. "Mummy's home."


	30. This Ain't No Holiday

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 29. This Ain't No Holiday  
**

_by Shandi  
_

The next two things that Shandi knew were pain and darkness.

The squirrel's eyelids flickered open, that tiny movement alone causing the agonized throbbing in her skull to reach a fever pitch. Her stomach gave an icy churn in response, so she quickly shut them again. Her thoroughly muddled brain did its level best to piece together the events that had led her to this point, but it was slow going.

How _had_ she gotten here, anyway? She remembered a fairly uneventful evening of traveling down the road with Demitri. They'd made camp for the night somewhere off the road, she was certain, and they'd carried on traveling in the morning. The last thing Shandi remembered, they were walking down the road. And now...she was here? It didn't make any sense.

After a few minutes, Shandi attempted to open her eyes again. Wherever she was now, it was cold and had very little light, save for a white sliver that beamed through what appeared to be a door at the top of a rickety wooden staircase. She appeared to be lying on her side on the world's thinnest straw mattress, the kind that evokes the question of why its maker even bothered at all.

Shandi stretched out a paw—which, thankfully, didn't seem to be hurt—over the edge of the mattress. Stone. She was most definitely lying on an absurdly thin mattress laid on cold stone. In fact, the walls and ceiling were also make of stone. Wherever she was, it certainly wasn't by choice. Who would actually _choose_ to sleep on a sack filled with few enough strands of straw that she could probably count them on her paws? And anyway, wasn't it only mid-morning? She distinctly remembered walking down the road with Demitri as the sun was slowly climbing to its zenith.

This brought about yet another question. Where was Demitri? Gritting her teeth together to cope with the pain, Shandi slowly turned her head to look around. Two dark figures sat huddled on another set of "mattresses" in the opposite corner of the room, their backs to her.

"Demitri?"

The smaller figure's head turned. "Y-you'm be awake!"

The other figure turned. It was that weasel they had been tailing, runny nose and all. He pulled out a kerchief and _snrrked_ wetly into it.

"Where in hellgates are we?" the squirrel asked, propping herself up on an elbow.

Before they could answer, the door at the top of the stairs was flung open, and white light seared Shandi's eyeballs. The squirrel shrank back, groaning.

A squirrelmaid some years older than Shandi took the last few stairs at a leap, landing nimbly on her footpaws.

Shandi blinked. "Who are—"

The other squirrel surged forward, smacking Shandi in the face. "Shut up."

"Ow! What in bloody 'gates was that f—"

The older maid kicked her roughly in the side. "I said, shut _up_!"

Shandi's hackles rose, and she instinctively reached for her axes, which were no longer there. The squirrel snarled in anger and dove at the unreasonable creature, claws at the ready. Her foe leapt backward, and Shandi felt something jerk hard on her ankles. She fell flat on her face, swiping uselessly at the squirrel's legs, which danced to the side and delivered two more swift kicks to her prone form. Shandi's body screamed at her from the places the squirrel had struck.

Only now did she remember. She had been walking down the road with Demitri when something hard smacked her in the back of the head. She had fallen in a heap, consciousness ebbing away. In the last fuzzy moments between light and darkness she thought she'd seen a squirrel grabbing Demitri...

Shandi rolled over and hefted herself into a sitting position with a grunt. She peered at her footpaws, which she had just realized had been chained to the wall.

"It'd take a much stronger beast than you to break one of Birch's chains," the other squirrel laughed, aiming another kick at Shandi.

"Oh, just leave her alone already!" the weasel groaned. "Don't you have anything better to do?"

"Pipe down, snotnose," the abusive stranger growled. "I'll deal with you next. You! What's your name? Tell me, or I'll punch you in the face."

"Shandi Fen."

The other squirrel promptly punched her in the face, the force nearly knocking Shandi over.

"Fates damn it, _why_?" Shandi snarled dejectedly, clutching her aching jaw in her paws. "I thought ye said ye wouldn't!"

She looked up at the squirrelmaid and thought she saw something other than anger. Hatred, perhaps? But that didn't make any sense. She didn't even know who this squirrel was, let alone why she felt the need to beat the bloody daylights out of her.

The other squirrel stood with her chest heaving, ears flat against her skull and her mouth twisted in a furious scowl. Then, without warning, she turned and stamped heavily up the stairs, slamming the door behind her and throwing them all into relative darkness once more.

"What was _that_?" Shandi burst out. "Who _is_ that psychotic wench?"

"I don't know," the weasel said, scooting as far away from Demitri as his chains would allow. "I don't know anything. I don't know why I'm here! I don't know what they want with me, or you! They took my clothes and gave me these. They won't feed me. They're probably planning on starving us to death!" A rather unnerving smile crept across the mustelid's face. "Or try to..."

_What's that supposed to mean?_ Shandi chose to ignore his last comment. "How long have ye been here?"

"I've been here, I don't know...it was early morning. Feels like days already. Maybe a whole week. Then you and the mole showed up." He nodded toward the stairs. "That squirrel and a couple other beasts dragged you down here. They chained all of us up. I was at least allowed to move 'til then."

Shandi turned her head away and pretended to cough, her face flushing scarlet beneath her fur. Did it really take three beasts to carry her, or was the weasel just being cheeky? She'd give him more than chains to worry about if he was.

"My name's Dominic, by the way," the weasel added. "But you can call me Snotnose if it makes you feel any better." As if that would smooth everything over.

Then an even bigger annoyance occurred to the squirrel. "But...neither of ye were knocked out?"

"No," said Dominic.

Demitri shook his head.

"But...but why not?" Shandi's voice was almost childishly shrill, but she didn't care. It wasn't fair. She had just had the bleeding, almighty dung beaten out of her, and the drippy weasel and mutilated mole freak hadn't been touched.

Dominic frowned. "If it's any consolation, I'd rather have been knocked senseless than shut up in here all alone for a week. My daughter's probably worried sick. If she's still alive. How's that for unbearable pain? I'd trade you in a heartbeat."

"It's been less than a day, and don't get smart with me, y' scrawny bastard," Shandi snapped. "How was I supposed to know ye had a kit?"

Oh, yes. He _had_ gibbered about a kit at some point yesterday, hadn't he? But he didn't know that she knew that.

Dominic bristled. "Don't call me that. At least you still have yours with you. I'm guessing twins? Maybe triplets?"

Vulpuz-damned weasel. Shandi glowered at him. "If'n I didn't have these chains, weasel, I'd shut yer smart mouth fer ye, since ye don't seem to know how to yerself."

The weasel's whiskers drooped, and he sighed. "What's the use? There's nothing we can do about it anyway. Oh, fates...I miss her."

Dominic bit his lip, his eyes suddenly watery. Shandi hated him more than ever in that moment; he'd made her feel bad for yelling at him.

"Urrm," Demitri interjected into the awkward silence that followed.

Dominic tried to edge a bit farther away from the mole. What was wrong with him? Demitri annoyed her too, but this weasel acted like he was one of Vikraja's defective firesticks and somebeast had just lit the fuse.

"Just...keep away from me. I've got enough problems without..." Dominic's nose and chin shook as he attempted to point at the mole's footpaw with his face, "_that_ happening to me."

"Really?" Shandi scoffed. "Ye're afraid of a little weird-lookin' footpaw? Ye know it ain't gonna jump up and bite—"

"_Stop_!" Dominic shut his eyes and screwed his face up, shuddering.

_Serves him right for calling me preggers._

Light poured in as the door creaked open once more. Shandi, Dominic, and Demitri all blinked at the unexpected brightness, watching as a different squirrel descended the stairs. This one was a male, older, stockier, and...decidedly familiar.

Shandi blinked several more times, this time in disbelief. "Tristram?"

The squirrel was shaking his head. "Shandi. I didn't believe Nanain when she told me it was you. What in the blue blazes are you doing here?"

"Nanain, eh?"

Tristram chortled at the sullen look Shandi gave him. "Not the friendliest of beasts, I'll give y' that."

"She beat the tar out of me, Trist. Anyway, what...What is going on? Where are we? Why are ye here?"

"I live here, Shandi. In Rillrock. Remember?"

Shandi paused for a moment as realization dawned. "Ye never took me to Rillrock, Trist. Ye were meaning to, but ye said it was too ris—"

Tristram cleared his throat meaningfully, eyeing Dominic and Demitri. He knelt down, pulling a large key ring from his coat pocket. In a trice the shackles fell from Shandi's footpaws and Tristram helped her up.

He whispered in her ear, "Y' know it's not safe t' discuss Sentinel matters with just anybeast. I hope y' haven't been this careless with your tribe."

"Of course not!" she hissed back. "Though, while we're on the subject of careless things, how is it that I got my head bashed in and the other two weren't even touched, eh? I thought I was supposed to be...

"Oy, Snotnose and Weirdpaw," Shandi added to Dominic and Demitri. "We're at the Sentinel headquarters, and this bloke is one of them."

"Why would you even do that?" Tristram protested.

"Oops. How _careless_ of me." Shandi smirked. "Now, would ye mind telling us what we're all doing here?"

Tristram frowned at her. "Very well. I suppose I have no choice. _Now._ But come on, let's get y' some vittles first. Ollie makes pasties like y' wouldn't believe."

The room turned out to be the basement of a somewhat run-down establishment called the Goodlibeast Inn. Tristram seated them at a table in the corner. Despite the overall drabness of the place, at least the wooden tables were well-scrubbed.

"'Allo, good sirs. Madam," squeaked a silvery hamster in an apron and a tall, white chef's hat. "What'll it be?"

"Pasties all around, Ollie," said Tristram.

"You've got it, Chief!" Ollie winked and waddled off back into the kitchen.

"'Scuse me for a mo'." Tristram got up and walked over to the bar and struck up a conversation with the bartender, a stern-looking hedgehog.

"I don't want pasties!" Dominic hissed at Shandi. "I want to get out of here and go home! Who are all these nut baskets and why're you all such buddies! They hit you!"

"We ain't leaving just yet," Shandi growled, her stomach following suit. The smells drifting from the kitchen were agonizing. "I don't even know. I only know Tristram. Met him last year. Said he needed my help fer something. Still a bit fuzzy on the details, though."

"We're not a 'we,'" Dominic said.

"Believe me, weasel, nobeast wants that to be true more than me. But if the Sentinels want ye fer something, it's...not something ye can just walk away from whenever ye feel like it."

Shandi looked around. A weasel and a rat were conversing quietly at a table nearby. A badger, marten, and mouse were at another. Every so often a furtive glance or two would be thrown their way. How many of these beasts were actually Sentinels, Shandi wondered. Tristram was never one for specifics, which alternately annoyed and intrigued her.

Demitri laid his paws on the table and leaned forward, resting his chin upon them. Dominic looked disgusted.

"Beasts have to eat off this, you know!" he scolded.

"Ye know, Demitri, next time the weasel talks to ye like that, just kick him. With yer gimpy paw." Shandi relished Dominic's shudder at the thought.

"I'm sick of this!" Dominic groaned. "I didn't do anything to deserve being stuck here with you two. Stop looking at me like that!" he snapped at Demitri. "I don't get it. Why can't I just leave?" He shut his mouth suddenly, looking at the unguarded door. "Oh. Well, I'm off, then!"

But escape was not in the cards for Dominic. At that moment Tristram returned to the table with his paws full of mugs and glasses.

"Ooh, please, sir, I insist you let me help you," a young hedgehog server said, bobbing eagerly up and down at Tristram's elbow.

"Grady Hyssop, I insist y' stop with the insisting and go help somebeast else, before y' make me spill these drinks!"

Grady's smile faltered a touch, but he bowed and backed away, bumping into a table. The hedgehog blushed and scurried away to pester the badger's party.

"Right," said Tristram, plunking the mugs down. "Strawberry fizz for the young 'un, willow bark tea for Shandi..."

"Ecch, why?" Shandi wrinkled her nose at the mug placed before her.

"It'll help the pain. Y' said y' were beaten badly, did y' not? And I wasn't sure what y' liked, sir, so I got you a glass of Cavern Destop's finest brandy—"

"No, um, anything but alcohol," said Dominic.

"Chamomile tea it is, then. It'll help y' with that nasty cold y' got."

"'S not a cold," Dominic grumbled. "Don't blame me when you wake up with stomach boils."

Shandi rolled her eyes, but Tristram gave Dominic a polite, if not entirely certain, smile. He sat down and started in on his own brandy. Shandi sipped her tea. It tasted foul and was only lukewarm. He could've at least put some honey in it. She sucked it down as quickly as she could, slamming the mug down with a shudder.

Out of the corner of her eye, Shandi saw Dominic surreptitiously wipe the rim of the mug with his tunic sleeve before taking a tentative sip. _Git._

"That's...good. Now, but hold on! I don't have to drink your tea!" Dominic's mug hit the table with a clatter and wobbled precariously. "I want answers! Why am I here? I need to get back to my daughter!"

"C'mon, Trist, out with it," Shandi agreed. "I'm wanting to know that myself."

"Very well." Tristram sighed and moved his mug aside, leaning forward. "Seems we've got a lot t' learn from each other, really.

"The Sentinels...Let's just say, we like to keep an eye on things. We kept an especially close watch on the treaty. Mossflower's come a long way, but we're not out of the woodshed yet. We knew that not everybeast was happy about it, and we thought something bad might happen. Turns out, it did. But then, you three already knew that, didn't you?"

Shandi's eyes widened and she shared confused looks with Dominic and Demitri. They knew? How could _they_ know?

"We brought y' here because you three have all been suspected of murdering the abbess of Redwall. We're trying to figure out why."

"Because they're a bunch of prejudiced nutjobs. What d'you care?" Dominic asked.

"We have our reasons." Tristram took another sip of brandy, but he did not offer any further explanation.

"Well, I'm not trusting anybeast here with anything I know about it. I didn't kill anyone! I'm going home." He rose from his chair.

"Oh, y' don't want to do that, sir...What is your name again?"

"Domini—no! I'm not telling."

"Dominic? Dominic. Y' don't want to do that, Dominic. You're a suspect now. There are beasts literally hunting y' down to get a reward. Y' know how frenzied beasts get when gold is waggled in front of 'em, eh? Trust me, you're much safer with us. I promise, you'll be kept safe as long as you're with us."

Dominic slumped back into his seat.

"Except me, of course," Shandi grumbled, snatching up Dominic's rejected brandy and taking a gulp. "Why'd I get beat up an' they didn't?"

Tristram looked decidedly irritated by Shandi's thievery but chose not to comment on it. "Because Dominic was lucky enough t' get brought in by somebeast other than Nanain Leafbright. She does tend to get a bit carried away, fates bless her."

Shandi gingerly poked at one of her molars with her tongue. Nanain's "getting carried away" had loosened it considerably. "She's a _lunatic_, Trist."

At that moment, Nanain appeared in the flesh, making straight for their table. Shandi narrowed her eyes, glowering at her. Nanain's face was stony, and she tossed Shandi's axes unceremoniously onto the table.

"Ah, thanks, Miss," said Tristram.

Nanain did a sharp about-face, her bushy tail whipping Shandi in the face. Shandi spat fur and growled at her retreating figure, but Tristram patted her thick arm.

"Don't pay her any mind, eh? That's just how she is."

"Vile. I know," Shandi muttered, taking another swig of brandy.

"Well, Dominic, Demitri, Shandi, I apologize for having y' locked up. With the other night's events, it's been a bit of a madhouse around here. The orders were for the suspects to be trailed or taken into custody, if possible. The leaders didn't have a chance to meet with all of you until now, and we weren't sure if y' were dangerous or not. I think I know a way I can put your mind at ease, Dominic. But, ah, I'll get to that after lunch!"

Ollie and Grady had arrived with four large, piping hot pasties. Shandi fought back a groan of ecstasy as she sank her teeth into it. It was the most delicious thing she'd ever tasted. She ate hers far quicker than the others, but she didn't care.

She finished. She was still hungry.


	31. We Will, We Rillrock You!

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 30. We Will, We Rillrock You!  
**

_by Dominic  
_

Dominic stabbed his pasty ferociously. It was only then he noticed they'd given him two spoons. Well! Some amount of trust going on here, wasn't there? And Shandi got some hatchets? Fine. _Fine!_ Ugh. He'd eat with his paws.

The tea was delicious. The pasty was made with wood pigeon. And basil. It was the best meal he'd had since Darron had worked late over a week ago and Faye had brought her near-famous quail breast stuffed with cheeses to his house so it wouldn't spoil.

Yet, the food turned to coal in his throat. It settled in his stomach with guilty weight. He could only hope Ella was eating well right now, if not earlier. He hoped Faye remembered to give her something soft, and to cut whatever she made into smaller chunks so Ella couldn't choke on it. No doubt Faye would treat her to some milk afterward, even though Dom had told her he was trying to wean Ella off it. She was getting too old for that.

This was silly! Here he was, his own life in peril, and worrying over Ella not being fed just right. He needed to concentrate on his own problems. He had to worry about himself, or he wouldn't be alive to worry about Ella later. He knew this was true, but it didn't make it any less painful to accept. It was out of his control.

He chewed and sighed. It shouldn't have been out of his control. Faye would take care of her, but if Darron got to her...

"What was that about putting my mind at ease?" he asked.

"Patience, Dominic. After we're done eating. And come to think, a tour of the town might do y'all some good, stretch your legs. How'd you like that?"

"My footpaw'd like a tour of your backside..." Dominic mumbled.

"Sorry, didn't quite catch that."

"I said, 'Can I have seconds?'"

"Aye, me too," Shandi said, holding her plate out. Demitri curled his chubby little arm around his half-eaten pasty and leaned away from the squirrel.

"You can," Tristram said, taking Dominic's plate. He gently lowered Shandi's paw to the tabletop. "_You_ can't."

"But that's-"

"Not fair? Lad's fur and bones, Shandi. Needs to get his strength up. You, on the other paw, will be just fine."

Dominic sagged. Fur and bones! It was getting the better of him, it was. It _felt_ like the plague was leaving his body, but he was certain it was just a symptom. He was getting delusional, that was it. He tugged at his tunic, suddenly feeling hot. The one they'd given him was gray and itchy, and too tight. A kit's tunic, it felt like. If only he could blame the tunic for his discomfort!

Shandi scowled. "It's not like I'm _depriving_ him, Trist! I know ye've got more than one extra pasty back there!"

"Principle of the matter, Shandi."

"Scrawny git," Shandi muttered.

Dominic stuck his tongue out at her as his pasty arrived. She snarled, baring her teeth at him. His eyes caught something stuck between her front incisors and quickly averted, focusing on his pasty. It was celery inside, or some other kind of vegetable. He choked it down. It was too late to share now his mouth had been all over it. Not that he would have offered anyways.

After he'd finished, they waited on Demitri to ponderously chew his last morsel before Tristram led them outside.

Dominic shuddered as the sunlight fell on his fur. He couldn't tell if it was just the warmth settling in, warmth he hadn't felt since entering Redwall Abbey, or if it was from leaving the oppressive atmosphere of the inn. "Goodlibeast" Inn! Honestly, he couldn't see how the other vermin in there could be so comfortable about it all.

"Soooo... this is Rillrock," Shandi said. Her tone was unimpressed. Rightly so, Dom realized, glancing around. The inn was the only building in sight that had more than one story. Rillrock was small, smaller than Veil Village, which was already one of the smallest towns in Mossflower.

"Yup," Tristram said. "It ain't much to look at, sure, but that's just the way we like it. See, the stream doesn't run very deep, and the otters have shored it up. Just about every building has a cellar. Some of them twice the size as the place above. Many are connected by tunnels. The inn here just has a small one, a regular cellar. First place anybeast'll bother looking. Above ground, we're just a fine little village. Below ground..." Tristram gave a cheeky grin, but offered no further explanation.

They moved away from the inn, coming towards the rock the town had been named for. It sat smack-dab in the middle of the stream, acting as a bridge. Dominic's eyes bulged at the sight.

"They say," Tristram said, "that the stream used to be a river. Twenty badgers rolled the rock here from the mountains to the south. With the river jammed up, the plains to the north flooded, making a lake, wiping out, pardon me, Dominic-wiping out a horde of evil vermin. The river found a new path to take, but then some of the badgers came back and hacked a passage through the rock to let the water pass through again."

They stared at the rock with the perfect hole in the middle. There was only a few inches of darkness above the water, but the hole spanned the entire breadth of the stream.

"That's rubbish," Shandi said.

"Of course it is," Tristram agreed. "If they had twenty badgers, they wouldn't need to stoop to agricultural sabotage."

He went on about the history of the town, then. Most of it, Dominic found he already knew. They got travelers enough in Walkin's tavern who were eager to share their tales, however dull. Dominic heard enough that he'd never felt the urge to visit, despite it being practically just across the road from Veil.

Most towns were built around a single main street. Rillrock had been built about a single main stream. Mossflower wood crept in from all sides, providing better wind protection than towns built on the plains. Nobeast had needed to hack the trees down for building materials. Otters had founded the town less than twenty years ago, floating timber from up north. Squirrels had joined up not long after, attracted by the glade-like ambiance. And then others: mice, moles, hedgehogs, hares, shrews, even a family of hamsters. And still others, although more recent: foxes, ferrets, weasels, stoats, and rats. It was a veritable Utopian society.

Dominic didn't believe that one bit. After all, it was what they had said about Redwall, too.

Veil Village had begun as a district of Redwall City. A slums. Packed with vermin, it had expanded by necessity, growing southward. When the old shacks fell apart, beasts just rebuilt them on the southern side. Nobeast wanted to live on the side closest to the other districts. And after years of this practice, they'd woken up one day to find the rest of the city half a mile away. That was when the village began, and they chose its name.

Dominic didn't know the word for it. Ironic? It was ironic that Veil Village, the closest settlement to Redwall City, was the last all-vermin town left. Even Sparkwood was being receptive to woodlanders now, last Dominic had heard.

"Well, that's enough for me," Tristram said. "I've got to get back to the inn to sort some things out."

"What?" Dominic cried. "What about us?"

"Oh, go on, take in the sights. Come back in half an hour, I'll have things ready then."

Dominic found himself immobile, his whole body quivered with rage. Here he'd been forced away from his daughter, turned into a wanted beast, been kidnapped from his brother's backyard, and locked up in a cellar for Fates knew how long, and now he was expected to just _take in the sights_? In two minutes, Ella could turn a picnic at the pond into an impromptu swimming lesson. Dominic's mind ran wild, conjuring up the mishaps she could get into in half an hour's time- and she'd had a whole _day_!

By the time his throat unsqueezed enough to let him speak, Tristram had gone back inside the inn. Shandi and Demitri were plodding off as well. Dominic watched them go.

He was alone.

Resolve festered in his soul.

He set off towards the woods, footpaws stomping with determination.

All at once, a pair of otters leapt in front of him.

"'Lo there, matey! Where ye goin'? 'Fraid we can't let you leave..."

Dominic narrowed his eyes. Otters! Why was it always otters! He had nothing against them, apart from them trying to kill him. He just wished his adversaries would be a little more in his weight range.

His fur bristled, but he didn't stop. He wasn't scared! He'd kill them both if he had to, er... if he had anything to kill them _with._ But he wouldn't let them stop him. He was resolute! His paws bunched into fists. Arms stiff, he kept walking. The blasted otters wouldn't move! With a grunt, he plowed into them. This resulted in him nearly falling over backwards. The male of the two grabbed his arm and pulled him upright.

"Haha, cute. Isn't he cute, Oakey? Thinks he can just barrel past us!"

"Ow," Dominic said, rubbing his shins.

"Pleased ter meetcha, Ow," the female said. She stuck out her paw. "I'm Oakey!" Dominic eyed the paw, then tentatively reached out and shook it. Seemed clean enough.

"I'm Dominic."

"'Lo, Dom," the male said, putting forth his own paw. "Don't mind if I call ye Dom, do ye, Nicky-boy? I'm Syc- hey! Where're ye going?"

Dominic tried not to breathe as he ran back to Shandi.

"Wait uuuuuuup!"

-

"It's official," Shandi declared. "Rillrock is boring."

Dominic was still looking over his shoulder, tensing for the moment when the diseased otter would re-appear.

"I mean, the most interesting thing is the blacksmith's stories, and even those end up the same way."

Demitri nodded. He pounded a fist into his open paw. "Somebeast g-g-gettin' smushed!"

Dominic blanched. "Is half an hour over yet?"

"How should I know? Do I look like I have an hourglass?"

"No..." Dominic scanned the trees. Did otters climb? How had they jumped in front of him so fast, earlier? "I have one at home. I should have brought it."

"I'll bet ye're the type of beast to just sit and watch the sand trickle through just so ye can flip it over at exactly the right time."

"There's nothing wrong with that!"

"Indeed not," Tristram said, right behind Dominic's shoulder. The weasel leapt whirled about, cringing. Blindspot! Where did that come from!

"There's nothing wrong with being punctual," the squirrel said. "Bit too much sugar in your tea, Dominic?"

Demitri was sniggering. It sounded like a wood pigeon chick's dying warble as Darron stamped on its neck.

Dominic tried his best steely glare. Judging from Tristram's amused expression, it was ranking more along the lines of "melted copper".

"Alright, well. Moving on. I've gathered a team of NPCs to help-"

"What's an NPC?" Shandi asked.

"Invisible Patrol Covert... something like that. Don't look at me, I wasn't there when they chose titles. I just call them spies. Here they come now." Tristram waved at the three beasts walking towards them. Dominic recognized Oakey, the otter, as well as stunted male fox and a greasy monitor lizard in a cook's apron.

"Dommy!" Oakey cried, bounding over with a huge grin. "What a lark, runnin' off like that when poor Sycamore's tryin' ter introduce himself. Made him cry. Some manners ye got!"

"S-sorry, I thought..."

"Well, glad that was at least happenin'." Oakey reached over to tap his head, then seemed to think better of it. She folded her paws behind her back and rocked on her heels. "What's th' news, Skip?"

"You three are going to take Dominic here and head across to Veil Village. Find his daughter, take whatever he deems necessary from his house, and then return."

Dominic could have hugged the squirrel. Finally, somebeast was listening to him!

"It'll be dangerous," Tristram went on. "What with all the beasts out looking for him. You'll bring him just to the outskirts of the town, then Oakey, you and Dominic lie low and wait for the other two. They'll scout the town and report back to your location with any news."

"'Scuse me, Skip, but if it's so dangerous, why's he comin' along at all?"

Tristram began drawing a map in the dirt with his footpaw.

"Most of the bounty hunters are still northward. There is a chance, however slim, that Veil has not yet been informed of the happenings at Redwall. If this is the case, then I think it is best for Dominic to be allowed to say goodbye to his friends and family before returning to Rillrock." Tristram raised a paw to shush Oakey's next question. "We _could_ just have you go there, scout, come back and fetch him if it's safe, sure. But things could change by then. Dominic is coming along _only_ in the event that it is safe for him to enter the town. Otherwise, his presence is simply for his instructions, and to get him reunited with his daughter as quickly as possible. Lastly, I want y'all back before sunset."

"Got it, Skip." The otter saluted. The fox and lizard nodded. Tristram waved them forward.

"Dominic, Shandi, meet the team. This here is Rod, and the esteemed Cones."

Rod, the fox, bowed. Cones stuck his tongue out, but smiled. Dominic wondered why lizards did this. It somehow didn't seem quite as rude, not like when others- oh Fates someone had cut the thing in half! That was disgusting!

"We're from Veil," Rod said. "Know it like the back of our paws. Claws in Cones' case. Met you a few times, if you remember. Walkin's tavern, right?"

Dominic nodded. He was still too dumbfounded by all this to say anything much.

"Hah, I knew it! Never seen anybeast mop up a spill so fast."

"It stains..." Dominic mumbled. He gave a tidy, toothy little grin. He was _not_ letting his tongue out to get chopped in half as well!

"Oi!" Shandi interrupted. "What about us? When do I get to see the rest of yer operation?"

Dominic could have sworn Tristram's eyes actually twinkled. "In due time, Shandi. Since you're so eager, why don't you go along on this mission? Keep your friend company on the trip?"

"What? Really?" Dominic's lips twitched upwards a little. It was clear Shandi hadn't been expecting that kind of response. "I... Right. Okay."

"Grand! Could use another set of paws if th' blighter tries ter make a break for it," Oakey said. "Nicky's a fast little wor-" She caught his eye and smiled. "Delightful, upstanding mustelid. Beanpole."

Dominic sighed. "Just so long as I get Ella back, I don't care where I am. I can't very well go back to Veil, can I? They're bound to turn me in eventually. Even though I didn't do anything," he quickly added.

"Tough luck, kiddo," Oakey said. "Just stick it with us for now, eh?"

"We best get going," Iris said, looking at the sky. "Sunset's not long. We'll be lucky to get there and back, let alone move a whole house's worth of baubles."

"There'll be some more of us waiting just off the road to lighten the load," Tristram assured her. "You three go get ready. Shandi, tag along if y' like, or stick around with me. I'll have time to show you around properly in a while. For now, Demitri, Dominic, come with me."

"Buh-bye!" Oakey called, bounding away with the others in tow. Tristram shook his head.

"Wouldn't be surprised to hear if her father was a hare," he muttered. "Speaking of fathers. Dominic, I'm proud of you. It must be hard, twiddling your paws, unable to to anything about your daughter's whereabouts."

"Only because you won't _let_ me. Er, until now."

"Right. I just want y' to know, that fear you're feeling now is normal. It doesn't go away the older y' get. And don't try to let it go. Don't let anybeast tell you it's unnecessary. There will come a day when y' have nothing to act on but that fear, and you'll know it's right."

Dominic didn't know what to say to any of this. They came to a plain-looking cottage. Tristram knocked on the door and turned to Dominic.

"Have y' met Belette Delmore?"

"Er, no? I don't want to meet anybeast else. I should be getting ready to go!"

"Exactly what we're doing. Belette's a seamstress."

"I don't know what that is," Dominic admitted.

Tristram stopped to knock on the door of a plain-looking cottage. He turned to smile at Dominic. "Well, you'll find out. You'll get along just fine, I think. Belette! Customer here to see you."

"But I don't have any mon-" His breath left him in a great big hurry to say hello to the stunning figure that opened the door. It was in such a hurry it left his voice behind. Flustered, it flew back into his mouth, picking up the tongue it had left lolling in its departure.

"H-hello!" Dominic said. He coughed. He tried again, deepening his voice. "Hello. You must be Belette. I'm Wright. Dominic. Dominic Wright." He licked his paw and smoothed back his whiskers.

The weaselmaid in the doorway was not quite as lovely as Faye. Faye was a hard act to follow, but Belette followed closer than most. Her dress was simple, sky-blue with white ribbons. She bore none of Faye's faded bruises. Her fur was sleek and deep-hued, her whiskers straight and evenly spaced.

Belette raised her brow at him. She leaned around the door and spotted Tristram. "This him?"

Tristram was taking Demitri away. He turned, walking backwards for a few paces, and waved his arms. Belette sighed and looked back at Dominic. He tried to thrust his chest out a little further.

"Hello. Take off your tunic."

"Wh-hhhhuuu?"

Belette looked flustered. She hid her face in her paws a few seconds, then looked back at him. "Sorry! Not like that. I mean... Oh, just come inside. Mind the mess."

There were all sorts of dolls around on the floor. They were made of pinecones, nettles, sticks and sap. Dominic's heart fell a little. She had a kit, too.

"Hannah makes them. It keeps her occupied. Don't worry if you break one, she loves fixing them again. Here it is." She brought Dominic into a room full of sewing equipment. A loom occupied one wall. A rocking chair was set up in one corner, a half-quilted blanket spread over its arms. From a hanger on the wall, Belette took down a black tunic with a barely-visible seam through it. "It was torn when they brought you in. Don't worry about payment. Rillrock doesn't work that way."

"Y-you mean it's free?" Hannah. Something about the name tugged at his memory. "I don't have to pay?"

"Yes. We follow the old ways here." Dominic stared blankly. "We help each other out?" Belette said, tilting her head. "Regardless of species, that sort of thing?"

"Oh! Er, well, thank you. Um. If I can, if there's anything to, I can repay, er... you'reverynice."

The weaselmaid smirked. "A bit off your game, eh, Dominic?" She pushed his chest lightly. "Come back when you're a little grown up, maybe?"

Dominic found himself blushing furiously. He blinked. "Er, wh- come back? But you've got a, a kit and a husband..."

"A husband? He's gone."

"Did he leave you?" Dominic's hackles began to rise. "With a kit? What a bloody wretch! If I saw him, I'd give him a piece of my mind!"

Belette shook her head, smiling. "Thank you for the offer, but he's dead."

Dominic bit his tongue, and then panicked. Did he bite it in two, like that lizard's? How could he have been so stupid to insult Belette's departed husband in front of her? He hoped his tongue _was_ split. It was what he deserved for that.

There came a knock at the door, startling both weasels.

"Nicky-boy! Hurry up in there, snog 'er and let's go! Yer daughter's waitin'!"

"_Daughter_?" Belette said, tilting her head again. Dominic swallowed. She was so pretty when she did that.

"Her name's Ella." His tongue seemed to work fine. Damn. "I've... lost her. Tristram and some others are going to help me get her back."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Good luck, Dominic. If you don't mind me asking..."

"Her mother left us."

"Right. I suppose you'd better go change your tunic now. Dressing room's just down the hall. Oh, and Dominic?"

"Er, yes?" He dared not look at her face again.

"I'd like to see you again. Bring Ella." Belette stepped closer to him and grabbed his wrist. He squeaked and tried to draw back, but she held firm. She pressed something into his paw. "And blow your nose, it's dripping."

He stared for a while at the cloth, then closed his paw up and nodded. "Thank you, B-Belette. I'll make sure to come back. With Ella."

For some reason, he couldn't get his face to smile until he'd gone back outside. He tucked the white pawkerchief into a pocket of his tunic. It was very dapper.

"Ready, Mr. Romance?" Oakey said. She tossed him a large haversack and began to head towards the others. Shandi, Cones and Rod were waiting by the entrance to a path through the woods. "We gotta make fast, so keep up!"

"Wait," Dominic said. "What if Ella's not in Veil? What if Faye brought her back to her house? It's about midway from Redwall and the village... or, or she could still be _inside_ Redwall!"

Oakey put a paw on his shoulder and stared down at him. All traces of jovialty had gone from the otter's face.

"Dominic, I promise ye- I will not return ter Rillrock without yer daughter."

His eyes began to well up. He couldn't help it. He didn't understand why they were taking care of him like this, after taking him away from it all. How could these Sentinel beasts about-face just like that? Did they, or did they not know about the otter back at Redwall, and what he'd done there? What _else_ might they know? How could they possibly choose to be on his side in these matters?

And he still didn't know anything about them. How could he just put his life in their paws, and lead them right back to Faye's door? What if they tried to do something with her as well? Or Darron? Faye would never forgive him if something happened to Darron.

"I don't trust you."

"D'ye have a choice right now?"

"No."

"So shut up an' start marchin'."

Well, at least he wouldn't die with a dirty pawkerchief now. That was one worry off his chest.

He suddenly remembered where he'd heard the name Hannah before.


	32. Walking Under a Ladder

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 31. Walking Under a Ladder  
**

_by Cecil  
_

Cold.

Cecil had never thought much on the word. Having lived in Southsward for most of his life, the word was alien to him. Springs, summers, and autumns were perfectly warm, with hardly a trace of cold weather to be found. Even in winter, with snow forming huge blankets of white powder on the grass and trees, the sun shone as hot as a campfire, insulating everybeast's fur with soothing warmth.

But once he had marched straight into Mossflower, the squirrel could immediately tell a difference in the weather. The sun wasn't as warm as it could've been; the air was slightly chillier, and the rivers were frozen to the point where you could tread across them without the fear of falling through. However, although the weather was a tad nippier compared to Southsward, it was still not necessarily cold.

Only as the squirrel stepped into the frigid river's shallows and started to wade through the rushing torrent did he begin to understand the true meaning of the word 'cold'. The bard's body twitched in spasms as he shivered uncontrollably, pushing aside stray chunks of ice in his desperate search. Wrapping his bushy tail around him as a makeshift coat, he stared into the dark liquid, praying for some sign or signal.

"Do you see her, Cecil?" He heard Shelton call from the riverbank.

Teeth chattering, Cecil shook his head rapidly, still staring into the murky depths.

Where the bloody 'Gates was she?

Where the bloody 'Gates was Aya?

The squirrel turned to his companion. "I-I-I-I-I d-d-don't see anybeast, M-Mister Shelton."

Cecil had seen her dive into the water after somebeast but when she had gone under, he never saw her surface. She was underwater somewhere, probably getting eaten by some giant fish or pinned beneath the water, drowning without any hope of survival. He gulped. Even if she was the most unladylike squirrel he had ever met, no maiden deserved a fate like that.

He turned back to Shelton.

"M-Mister Shelton, if you w-would be s-s-s-so kind as to hold my hat." Cecil took the cap from his head and tossed it like a disk. The hat spun through the air, landing in the freezing water just short of the riverbank. He put a claw on his forehead for patience and sighed.

He never had been good at diskus games.

Shaking his head, the squirrel dove under the surface, regretting it immediately as the cold rush of water covered him.

Struggling against the lake's undertow was easier said than done while he was clothed in his loose, baggy attire. The cloth easily absorbed the water around it, weighing it down and making it difficult for the squirrel to paddle and kick his legs. With the freezing onslaught of water continuing to batter him from all directions, Cecil pressed on, fully convinced that his bones were beginning to turn to ice.

Lungs screaming a glass-shattering ballad in protest, Cecil was forced to turn back for air. As he broke the surface, the squirrel quickly scanned around him, hoping for some sign of Aya.

_Splishhh_

His eyes snapped to where the noise had come from, just in time to see Aya's tail-tip vanish beneath the cold water.

Cecil breathed a sigh of relief. "T-T-Thank th-the F-Fates," he stuttered, his chattering teeth making it almost impossible for any words to escape his lips.

He took another breath and turned to where Shelton was standing on the faraway bank. "Sh-Sh-Shelton!" Cecil called. The stoat's attention snapped to the squirrel. "I-I found her. B-Be ready to draw her lifeline in if I order it."

He nodded, gripping the long rope of belts and garments tightly.

Cecil nodded his thanks and turned back to where Aya had gone under. He took in a deep breath and dove.


	33. Setting the Stage

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 32. Setting the Stage  
**

_by Juniper  
_

Juniper was in his element.

As an otter, he did not much mind the chilly temperatures of the river, something that most other creatures were finding to be quite a detriment to both their ability to swim as well as their general enjoyment of the entire sequence of events—indeed, Juniper had even taken a dive earlier in the morning, when temperatures were colder, to catch fish for breakfast. Nor did he much mind the way the waters buffeted him about, directing him this way and that, their minds ready to change on a whim, and as quarrelsome as a group of Daves deciding how to cook up a terrible metaphor. As a matter of fact, he rather enjoyed the way the waters shoved him around, so that the effort on his part was very minimal.

But it was not the simple fact of being an otter in water that put him in his element. Juniper was quite aware of the beasts that had come to the troupe's rescue, and furthermore, he was aware of the female squirrel that had dived after him once the wheel he had been gripping had come loose from its axel.

Juniper disappeared beneath the waves because it seemed fitting, and then, when the squirrel had grasped his paws in a vice-like grip and kicked upwards towards the surface, he tore himself from her grasp. The squirrel hesitated, but nevertheless continued upward for another breath. Juniper jumped at the opportunity as though nothing else in the world mattered. It didn't, really.

He couldn't see well beneath the water, as it was far too muddy and silty, but he was an otter, and otters were lucky enough not to rely on sight alone. As such, it was not long before he located the cart wheel. It was a huge object, three-fourths his height, and made entirely of metal. It would have taken Juniper heavy straining to lift it off the ground—Dànaidh himself would have had trouble with it—but submerged in the depths, where it was more buoyant, the otter was able to raise it with ease.

He searched for a good place to put it.

A little ways off to his left were two huge rocks, side by side. Juniper was only able to discern their location by the dark, blurry shapes amidst the torrents of silt and debris. He hoped the wheel would fit.

Once the prop was upright, the otter swam towards the rocks, rolling the wheel along his side. It was fortunate that they were close, as the river's torrents and the rocky bed made it rather difficult to steer the hulking piece of metal. Allowing the wheel to roll ahead of him, Juniper directed it to slam between the rocks, and gave it a good push to secure it at its post. Upon testing it, however, he found that it was still rickety. Donning a pair of pursed lips, he swam around to the other side and pulled as hard as he could, unable to hear the scraping of metal on rock as the wheel wedged into place.

A dark shape had appeared where he had lifted the wheel, and Juniper looked up, recognizing the huge dark blur that was the shape's tail. It was the female squirrel coming back for him. Realizing he was out of time, Juniper swam up and through the prop, entwining himself in its spokes.

There he thrashed.

The sudden movement seemed to get the attention of the heroine, and it was not long before she had reached him, grabbed his paw, and pulled.

Juniper lay trapped beneath the wheel.

She pulled harder, setting her paws on one of the rocks and giving it her everything, but the wheel held firm.

It was surprising to the otter how well the stage had been set, and he could not deny the pride he felt at devising such a dramatic sequence, despite the fact that his arm felt like it was about to tear off.

A few more tugs and Juniper's heroine abandoned the otter's paw to set herself on trying to shift the wheel between the rocks, but it was to no avail. She pulled and strained, but it was almost as though the wheel had become part of the very rocks it had been jammed against.

Juniper's lungs were beginning to ache, and he let loose a few bubbles to relieve some of the discomfort. His heroine looked at him, and through the mud and silt he could see a myriad of emotions. Anger, frustration, and worry being the most prevalent. Juniper returned the look with one of panic and despair. He struggled against the wheel—not too hard, mind. Just enough to show he was afraid. That was important.

His heroine looked up to the surface, then back at him. She squatted on her haunches against the wheel, and Juniper grabbed her paw, forcing her to hesitate upon leaving him to return to the surface. She took his paw and squeezed. Juniper returned it, weakly. Then she launched off the wheel like a fire stick.

And Juniper waited.


	34. Betwixt and Between

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 33. Betwixt and Between  
**

_by Aya  
_

The chill water was starting to take its toll on her strength. Despite her best efforts, Aya was unable to pull the trapped beast free of the encumbering obstacle, and was forced to the surface for more air. Cecil was treading water anxiously, the frantic look he wore easing slightly when he saw her.

"Can't get 'im," Aya managed to spit out between gasps for air. "Stuck under a wheel."

_Of all the wretched luck... Damn that water is cold!_

"Could we perhaps... pull him free between the two of us, Miss Aya?" Cecil asked.

"Maybe, but he's running out of time," she replied, the burning in her lungs subsiding slowly. She was none too sure she had the strength left, but with Cecil's help...

"If we can't, I'll fasten this line to him, then we pull from the surface," Aya said.

"It will work, Miss Aya," Cecil said confidently, "I'm certain that it will."

Aya gave him a _look_ but only grunted in reply as she untied the line from her ankle and looped it around her wrist.

"Right, let's go."

A deep, gasping inhale and then the two sodden squirrels plunged beneath the murky waters. A few more kicks, a few more frantic paw-paddles, and then the feel of cold metal supplanted the free-flowing grit and stones. Aya ran her paws around the wheel, searching for some clue as to how to free it, but it was wedged securely in the rocks.

The lake bottom provided little in the way of purchase, but still she tried to brace herself somehow against the rocks and push against the wheel, Cecil mimicking her movements. Aya was briefly surprised at how much energy he was able to put into his efforts, but they were as ineffectual as her previous attempts had been. It wasn't going to work.

Aya unloosed the tethered line from her wrist and tied it to the beast's chest. She was now close enough to discern that it was an otter, but she didn't have the time or air to pitch a fit at the unfairness of the universe right then. The squirrel did, however, fasten the line using a slip-knot.

_That'll teach him to get himself stuck underwater. He's coming out, alive or dead._

Aya grabbed Cecil's arm and pointed to the line. Cecil grabbed it loosely, and then shot along its length toward the surface.

_Right, time to go otter-fishing._

The rocks provided just enough traction to push off along the trajectory of the lifeline. Aya tensed her haunches and jumped -and abruptly stopped, pain arcing up her back from the base of her tail. The line jerked taut in her paw, pulled out of her reach.

_No. Not now._

The otter popped free, the shock of his release reverberating through the wheel that had somehow shifted just enough to trap her tail. Aya strained and stretched, pressing desperately against the rocks, trying vainly to free herself as the wheel settled more firmly into its slot. She saw the otter, flailing languidly, flying toward the surface. Flying toward freedom.

Her lungs burned fiercely.

_Cecil._


	35. The Enemy Within

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 34. The Enemy Within  
**

_by Cecil  
_

Cecil's head broke the icy river's surface as fast as a bat fleeing from Hellgates. Teeth chattering, he gasped for air and pulled the makeshift lifeline with all of his might. After a few intense jerks, the otter popped out of the water with a splash, his sturdy body lying motionless as he was hauled to shore.

Cecil laughed. "S-s-see, I-I told you it would work, M-M-Miss Aya. Y-Y-You really must learn to trus…" He drifted off, realizing he wasn't talking to anybeast besides the air.

"Cecil!" He heard Shelton, still tugging on the lifeline, cry out. The squirrel knew what was coming next. "Where's-"

Cecil dove.

Even against the rushing current and harsh temperature, he swam as fast as he could, holding his eyes open in a vain attempt to locate the submerged cart wheel. Aya had gotten trapped under it just as the otter had. That was the thought that kept coming to his head. He prayed it wasn't true, that she had simply taken longer to reach the surface than he had.

He struggled not to gulp and waste his precious breath.

A cluster of air-bubbles floated past the squirrel's face, confirming his suspicions. He followed the trail, shouting out ever curse he knew in his mind.

Aya was struggling against the cart's heavy wheel when he arrived, anxiously trying to yank her tail from where it was pinned beneath it. She turned and stared at him like he was Martin the Warrior, reincarnated from the dead, her eyes now wide with sudden hope.

Cecil didn't waste any time and, although he hadn't been able to budge the wheel the previous times he and Aya had tried, he pushed on its surface, struggling to free the squirrelmaid from her watery death sentence. The huge wheel didn't budge no matter how hard he pushed it.

Aya looked like she was going to cry.

The bard pushed harder, slamming all of his weight onto the wheel. It didn't move an inch.

Even in the water, the squirrel slumped to his knees, staring at his circular foe in defeat. He closed his eyes and he scrabbled his claws into the silt, scratching his frustration on the lake's bed. This was Dittany all over again. He had no feelings for Aya, but she was slipping through his clawtips just like his true love had.

With heavy resistance from the water, Cecil slammed his paw to the ground.

_"A dark shadow shall fall o'er yew forever an' yew, yer children, and yer children's children shall be cursed with the worst kind o' luck fer all o' yer days."_

The curse wasn't true. Even if spells and curses were real, it couldn't be true. It had said he'd be cursed forever, yet it always seemed to be his friends who suffered. Dittany was dead, Fjord was suspected of a crime he didn't commit, and Aya didn't stand a chance.

The wheel still refused to budge. Cecil pushed harder, but again, it held fast to its position in the muck that carpeted the bottom of the lake.

_I-I can't do this… _ he thought to himself.

_"Yes, Cecil, give up. You know you can't do it. You know that you can't save her. You're not strong enough. Give up while you still have some dignity left. Don't worry, Cecil, she doesn't believe in you either… She'll understand." _

Cecil blinked at the sudden voice as it entered his head. It was hers' all right. He could recognize that sneer anywhere.

_"Hurry up now, Cecil. You're running out of air. If you don't leave now then you're going to join her when she departs to Dark Forest… you know… after you give up that is._

The squirrel defied her order, slamming his body against the wheel with all of his might, over and over again until he was sure he was going to be hurting in the morning. That smile. That smile that haunted him. That smile when he told her that he was leaving.

_Alajake…_ he thought, emphasizing every word with another shove against it. _If. I. Have. Told. You. Once. I. Have. Told. You. A. Million. Times…_

_I. NEVER. GIVE. UP!_

He glanced at Aya to see how much time he had left. The squirrelmaid was panicking, pushing on the wheel and yanking her tail in sheer desperation.

That wasn't good.

He grabbed hold of her and shook his head.

Even if Cecil was some strange squirrel who was able to talk perfectly while he was submerged at the bottom of a freezing lake, he wouldn't have had to. His wide eyes told her everything.

"I have an idea."

Cecil held out one claw and swam away from the trapped maiden, touching his paw to the lake's floor and searching for something suitable. If he could find something heavy and sturdy enough to slide beneath the wheel's frame, he could pry it off of her tail just enough to let it slide out from underneath it. It would be tough, but it was doable.

He touched a round stone.

_No._

A smoother stone.

_No._

The slick surface of a fish.

_…Definitely not._

"Give up, Cecil."

Shove off, Alajake.

His paw hit something.

A plank of wood, most likely from the destroyed cart, stood out like a sore claw among the rocks and dirt on the lake floor. He thanked the Fates and, without hesitating, yanked it up and pushed off, kicking and paddling with his free paw as fast as it was physically possible.

Breath escaped his lips, erupting in a geyser of bubbles, as he swam with the current. His eyes widened in fright and a horrible though came into his head. Anxiety and the threat of his friend dying had allowed him to hold his breath longer than usual, which meant that if he had finally begun to run out of the precious oxygen…

_Aya._

The squirrelmaid was beginning to fade into unconsciousness when he arrived. Her eyes lit up at his appearance. Cecil could see how tired she looked, how much she wanted to close her eyes and sleep. He prayed that she wouldn't, that she still had some excess air left in her lungs somewhere. It _was_ possible. She yelled and shouted a lot more often than most maids… surely she had huge lungs.

Cecil smiled at the glimmer of hope in her eyes. _She_ does _believe in me._ He didn't waste any precious seconds and swam towards the wheel. Bubbles escaping from both his and Aya's mouths, he held the board firmly in determination, trying to position it in the tiny opening where her tail was being crushed.

_"I told you to give up, you lousy, hogswoggling, filth-ridden, mange-infested…"_ Alajake's voice rang in his head like a child throwing a temper tantrum.

The plank slid into position.

Aya's eyelids slid shut.

_As I recall, it was you and your 'boyfriend' who had the 'mange' problem, _Miss_ Alajake._

With a grunt, Cecil threw all his weight against the makeshift lever. He strained against the plank, lifting the wheel just enough that Aya's tail could slide out from underneath it.

In one swift motion he grabbed the squirrelmaid's arm and swam toward the surface. His lungs screamed. He screamed, thinking he wasn't going to make it.

Trilling birdsong and the sun's warm light greeted them as Cecil and Aya broke the surface.

The bard sucked in mouthfuls of air greedily, refilling his lungs with the life-giving oxygen. He turned to Aya. "A- Aya, please… p-please speak… say anything at all. Please, I beg of you."

She sniffed.

Cecil laughed harder than he had ever laughed in his life. He pulled her close.

Aya punched him in the snout. "Why d-didn't you do that sooner, you nitwit?"

He grinned, ignoring the small trickle of blood from his nose.

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that."


	36. Dancer in a Daydream

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 35. Dancer in a Daydream  
**

_by Fjord  
_

_"You little–" Fjord bounded after Dittany down the hall, paw extended and grasping for the bushy red tail just out of reach._

How _dare_ she,_ the hare thought. The brazen maiden had no right to stick her nose into his business. _And the cheek of her! Waving a letter about in my face, then stealing it away as a 'reward' for being a good little bunny._ 'Arrogant' was too kind a descriptor. He ducked down and used his powerful hindquarters to propel himself in a grand leap._

"Hah! Got yo–" Dittany ripped open a door and scampered through. She didn't bother to close it. "Oh, dear." Fjord writhed through the air, slamming into the wood shoulder-first and managing to grasp the handle with his left paw. His momentum flung him around and back, the crashing door covering the crack that rattled him to his teeth as he made the fascinating discovery that a stone wall was quite a bit harder than his head.

Before he had time dwell on the full magnitude of this fantastic revelation, another crack, this one outside and accompanied by a chorus of delighted screams, caught his attention. Discombobulated as he felt, the fire dancer managed to turn the handle the right direction on his fourth valiant attempt and–

A monstrous adder blocked the way, a macabre smile stretching across its yellow maw. Just beyond, the hare could make out a group of at least three shades that flickered and dissolved, whispers haunting the space they had occupied. "Hsss. You don't want to go in there, Fjord. You never know what you might sssee."

"W-wot?" Fjord fell back, darkness sweeping the venerable corridors of Redwall Abbey into the abyss and leaving only the doorway and serpent behind. It slithered forward, scales caressing the shadows like a lover.

"It'sss time to wake up now." The thing's tongue brushed his whiskers, and Fjord shuddered, pulling away. The adder mirrored him, withdrawing, and bunching its coils into a gold and black S of reptilian muscle. "Wake up!" It sprung.

O~O~O

"_No_!" Fjord screamed and started up from the ground, his head smacking into something that cried out.

"Ack!"

"Argh!" The fire dancer's eyes popped open as he clutched at his throbbing noggin, and he saw a stoat cradling his chin to the right. "I-I think I'm going to be sick." The hare rolled over and heaved the contents of his stomach onto the ground. He coughed, spat, and then wiped away the drool oozing down his face. "I say... koff... that's the last time I... koff... listen to a fox about a river crossing, wot. Koff!"

"Urgh... Stay here, I'm going to go check on the others."

Fjord had no intention of doing anything for the next several minutes save breathing... and shivering. Even with the midday sun making his best go at a sizzling spring day, the light breeze stroking the hare's fur chilled him more effectively than the water ever had. After pawing at his mouth a few more times and taking a tentative poke at the growing lump between his ears, Fjord looked up and around, rubbing his arms for warmth.

Three or four badger-lengths away, Dànaidh was hauling himself along the bank. If his quills could reflect his misery, the hare suspected they would be lying as limp as a week-old daisy chain. The hedgehog let his snout drag along the ground, not bothering to keep it up. He found an appropriately scenic patch of weeds and mud to die in and collapsed, coughing.

_Nice to know the brute _can_ be beaten,_ the fire dancer sneered, then gave himself a mental slap. _I say, Fjord, old chap, bad form! Downright mean-spirited, wot. Fellow deserves an apology for that sort of perfidious pondering._

Further on, the stoat with a chin of iron – _Ironchin, there's a name for a vermin chap._ – was helping Alastia stagger up the shore while Hector pulled Thera and Silver out of the water, the kit intertwined with the vixen's skirt and tail. The other way, the Gergregs each had one of Envie's arms and were lugging him out.

"Hahah!" The hare jerked his head toward the abrupt bark of laughter and regretted the decision. The world spun and he narrowly avoided keeling over by snatching a clump of some squishy thingummy or other and using it to steady himself.

Two heads had popped out of the water and proceeded to shore – one rodent and one otter. Juniper seemed to be unconscious, but when Ironchin called out to the fellow beside the otter – the words lost on the hare's waterlogged ears – Fjord returned his gaze to the ground. A sense of vertigo had come over him again, and if throwing up on a full stomach was unpleasant, throwing up on an empty stomach would be about as enjoyable as digging out his eyes with a spoon.

Sound came in booms, splashes, and whistles, nothing making much sense, but nothing to worry him, either. Eventually, the hare felt his tummy settling down and thought, _Best have a look at the others._

Fjord worked his way to his footpaws a little at a time, settling for loping on all-fours as he made his way over to Dànaidh. The hedgehog lay still. "Er... Dànaidh?" the hare tried. Nothing. He carefully prodded the fighter's cheek. "Dànaidh, sah? Can you hear me? I say, can you even feel this, Dàni?" Another prod. "I'd always wondered, wot. I mean you're covered in rather pokey bits, aren't you? Reckon after a few seasons you'd become immune, eh?" Yet another prod, enough to rock the fellow's head to one side. "But then that wouldn't do. Wot if you sat on your own quills, eh? Bit more than bruises there–"

Dànaidh snatched Fjord's paw before he could deliver another blow. "Ye keep jabbin' me in th' 'ead 'n' squawkin' in me ear, lad, 'n' I'm like as nae t' test _yer_ immunity t' quills." He let go and managed to lurch into an upright position. "Guh! I've nae felt s' much like shite since I wen' three rounds wi' Mousekind 'n' 'is Beauteous Brawler. Now _there_ was a beastie on'y a mudder could love. 'Beauteous' my arse."

"Right!" The hare said, grinning broadly. The perfect segue, sort of. "Well! I once challenged Carmen the Flame to a... Well, to a tap-off on _hot coals_! Lost. But! She-she was quite a bit older, you have to understand, wot! And I was... Hah! I was... Well, I-I was there. And I tapped. And it was very hot... It's like your fighting, then, eh? All running about and tumbling! See? You're a relatable chap. Everybeast's had his share of scuffles and scrapes." He raised his paws and threw a few mock punches for emphasis.

Dànaidh stared at him with a look of such complete bewilderment that Fjord worried the whirlpool might have knocked a few of the rocks between the hedgehog's ears loose. Then, he blinked and rubbed his forehead. "Did ye get _brained_ on th' way down, longears? What are ye on about? Is there anybeast else alive? Did ye even check." He snorted. "_Tappin'_!"

_'Give a chap a paw, and he's like as not to slap you with it.' M'am Lura certainly had that right, wot!_ Fjord grit his teeth and put on his best fake smile, determined to win the boor over after such a spineless shot earlier. "Looks to be everybeast made it out all right. Even a few new additions. A stoatly fellow and a few... erm... squirrels, I think they are, over that way. They brought Jun–"

"_What_!"

The exclamation set the hare's fur on edge. He wanted to leap away, so very far away from the owner of that voice, but he couldn't for the life of him understand why – Cecil was his friend.

Dànaidh raised an eyebrow and Fjord voiced their collective assessment of the situation. "Sounds like trouble, eh, wot?"

"Oh, we got trouble. With a capital T, and that rhymes with B, which stands for Bastard." It was Gergreg, alone. The pine marten extended a paw to Fjord, then Dànaidh, helping each of the woodlanders to stand.

"Where's Gergreg?" The fire dancer asked, looking around. He caught sight of the other marten twin sitting beside Envie, his hat in his paws and his head bowed almost to his knees. Gergreg's lips were pulled back and down, his eyes screwed tight, and his whole body shook every now and then... but, no sound escaped his muzzle.

_That's wot sorrow looks like,_ Fjord realized with a gulp. _That's wot Cecil must've looked like. And I wasn't there._

"What 'appened, la–"

"Envie's dead. Gergreg isn't taking it so well. They were more mates than me. Come on."

Hector, Thera, Silver, and the stoat had already regrouped where Cecil and – _Oh, Fates... It's her!_ – Aya stood, sopping wet and shouting at Juniper.

"–you were _playing_ dead?" the squirrelmaid snarled as Fjord, Dànaidh, and Gergreg shuffled over. "You little..." She made as if to strangle him, but Cecil grabbed her.

"I had to make it dramatic," Juniper protested, raising his shoulders and opening his arms. "You, by the way, were fantastic! I mean, I've seen a lot of heroines, but that performance... You put many an otter to shame today, miss."

"I say, why all the commotion?"

"Fjord?"

"W-wot ho, Cec?" He raised his paw up in a half-hearted salute.

"I'll tell you what the commotion is!" Aya interrupted before the bard could reply, shoving his paws away. "This _idiot_ was playing at being trapped and half-drowned. If I'd known it was a bloody otter I was rescuing sooner, I'd have bloody well _let_ him drown!"

"Did you have to play the damsel in distress, June?" Hector had one paw clasped over his eyes as he shook his head. "Why not the hero?"

"A real hero wouldn't let Envie get killed," Gergreg put in, casting a glance behind to where his brother grieved.

"Envie's dead?"

"Who's Envie?"

"Is he green?"

All glares turned to Cecil. "D-dearly sorry. Simply trying to lighten the mood."

Fjord reached over and tapped the squirrel thrice upon his head. "How does a bard have such bad timing, old top?"

"Er..."

"So, this Envie's dead because Aya and Cecil were saving the otter?" Ironchin asked. "That's a bit harsh, don't you think? He might've died anyway. Rather large whirlpool out there, if you hadn't noticed."

"We have an _otter_ with us," Gergreg growled. "_Nobeast_ should've drowned today."

"He has a fair point," Fjord agreed. "Speak up, then, Juniper, sah. Wot d'you have to say for yourself?"

The otter blinked, grinned, and then sprang to attention with a salute. "Sah! I was just doing my duty as a member of Hector's Acting Troupe, sah! Had to put on a blinkin' brilliant performance for the audience, sah! Can't let them down, sah! Would bring shame 'pon the family name, sah!"

The hare bristled, but Silver was the one to issue a reprimand, balling his small paws into fists and baring his teeth. "He's _dead_, Juniper!" the ferret cried, voice rising to a hoarse squeak. "For good."

"What? But..." The otter's brows knit together and his lower lip began to tremble. "But Envie never dies until Act II."

Fjord, Gergreg, and Aya moved as one, lunging forward to beat some sense into Juniper's criminally ignorant head. But at the last moment, the hare froze, and it was the marten and squirrel who tackled the otter and began laying into him. Fjord stared at his fist. It was shaking, but no longer with anger. Dànaidh was there in a second, grappling with Gergreg and flinging him off before dealing with Aya.

"That's enough o' that!" the hedgehog bellowed. "Don't jist stand there like a stump, longears! 'Old 'im!" The dancer's head snapped around, and he saw Gergreg picking himself up from the ground. Rage dripped from every fur on the marten's hide, forming a fiery glow about him and shining through his eyes as tears.

Gergreg jumped at Juniper again with a feral howl, but Fjord caught him mid-leap and threw him back down. The marten's fury did not terrify the hare so much as the otter's deranged insistence that life was nothing more than a play. Envie was just the first casualty. Who else would miss the curtain call?

"Sorry, old chap," he apologized sitting on the marten and pinning his arms. "J-just hold tight for a moment, eh? He deserved that box 'round the ears, but you don't want to kill him."

"Rrrargh!"

"Weeeell... maybe you do. Best not, though. Losing two friends and seeing his brother become a murderer in the same day might just break poor old Gergreg's heart in two, wot." That quieted the fellow. He quit jerking like a fish on a line and settled for biting the grass near his head.

Fjord turned his attention to Dànaidh as he wrestled Aya from Juniper's prone form. Hector rushed forward as soon as she was off to drag the otter up and away from the combatants.

"Calm down, lass! I dinnae want t' 'urt ye."

"Let go of me, hedgepig!" she growled, squirming in his grip. "He started this!"

"Aye, 'n' I'm endin' it."

Another few seconds of thrashing about seemed to cool the blood in her veins. Aya's flailing diminished to the odd twitch, giving way to impatient footpaw tapping. The hedgehog released her, and at the same time, Fjord stood and helped Gergreg up. Thera had run down the shore to comfort Gergreg, Hector and Silver were tending to Juniper, and Alastia was shaking her head at the whole affair.

"Well, that was exciting," Ironchin said after the relative silence had stretched to an uncomfortable length. "I'm Shelton, by the by. That's Cecil, and the lovely lady is Aya. How do you do?"

"Tch!" Gergreg sneered and stomped away.

"I see."

"Er... sorry about that, Shelton. Fjord, wot. Hector, Silver, Juniper, Dànaidh, Alastia, the vixen's Thera, and that was Gergreg." He indicated each of them in turn.

Shelton cocked his head to the side and point toward Gergreg, Thera, and Envie. "But I thought I heard you say that _he_ was Gergreg."

"Well, yes. That's a bit... They're both named Gergreg, you see."

"What?"

"_Please_, don't ask," Silver interjected. "I did once, and I've regretted it ever since. We're all a bit mutton-headed at nine, though."

"Anyway, lucky you chaps came along, I suppose." Fjord smiled, then scratched his cheek. "Though I'm afraid your rescue efforts were just a bit of a waste. Sorry."

"What were you doing on the river anyway?" Aya demanded. She paused pressing her lips together, then stabbed a claw at Fjord. "Ah, there you are!"

The dancer saw her reaching for her pocket and immediately grabbed Cecil's arm, twirling him into a hug so that he was in between the vengeful squirrelmaid and the hare. "Cec! So good to see you. And you as well, Ms. Aya. I was coming back for those scones, honestly! Just-just got a bit sidetracked, wot! But you're here now, so I can get them later. Dead polite of you to come all the way out here to deliver them. But first I must engage in a very serious discussion with my most bosom friend, Cecil. Two more ticks, eh?" Still using him as a living shield, Fjord dragged Cecil up the bank and into a small stand of trees that provided minimal cover.

"I am quite glad to see you too, Fjord," the squirrel said once the hare came to a standstill, eyeing the other group over the bard's shoulder. "But, if you would not mind letting go of me, it would be much appreciated... as you happen to be very cold."

"Oh! Right. Sorry, old top." He peeled himself off and stepped back, rubbing his neck. "Burns a bit bright over old coals, that one."

"More like rages to an inferno at the hint of a breeze." A tiny smile was tugging at Cecil's whiskers. "Oh! I might use that."

"You sly, old fellow. You like her!"

"What? _No_! She is entirely too..." The squirrel flapped his paws and frowned, but after a moment he reconsidered, adding, "Her tail is rather nice when it is dry, though. Not that I have been looking!"

"You squirrels and your tails," the hare scoffed. "Now for me, it's all about Mary's... _Mary_!"

"Is something the matter?"

"How could I have been so _stupid_! The water must've... Oh, Hellgates!" The hare withdrew the sodden lump of paper from his pocket. "Maybe I can still..." He carefully peeled it open, but it was hopeless. Most of the ink had run together in an ebony smear across the bottom. All that he could make out was: 'Salamandastron', '-napping', 'rampant', 'sister', and 'scared'. "Her sister's rampant napping at Salamandastron has her scared? Well, anybeast would be terrified. That gel's snoring could raze mountains. _No_, you idiot. That's rubbish! Complete rubbish! Blast it!" He threw the letter on the ground and almost stomped on it, but a firm grip on his forearm stayed his footpaw.

"Fjord, what has happened?"

"It's Mary." The dancer groaned, pulling his ears down and twisting them until it hurt. "She sent me a letter, that's why I had to leave, wot. But I didn't finish reading it, and now... She's in some sort of trouble, or her sister is, and I don't know what it is."

"Wait just a moment. The reason you have for leaving... is because o' Mary?"

"Wot?"

"Mary," the squirrel repeated, a hopeful grin working its way across his muzzle. "You _are_ innocent. I knew it could not possibly be you. This is wonderful! Now you simply must come back with us to Redwall, and we can tell Skipper that you had absolutely nothing to do with Dittany's..." The squirrel sobered. "With Dittany's murder."

The fire dancer looked at his friend and finally saw the lines of sadness traced beneath his jovial façade. "I'm sorry, Cec. In all the madness, I'd forgotten that... Are you all right?"

"No." He shook his head, frowning. "But when we, in fact, _do_ find who did this, and we fetch him back to Redwall, and I watch him _hang_ for what he did..." He muttered something else the hare could not make out beneath his breath, then finished, "I will be."

All the moisture in Fjord's mouth turned to ash as the meaning of the bard's words dawned on him. "You were sent from Redwall?"

"Well, not necessarily me, more so Ms. Aya and Mr. Shelton," the squirrel clarified. "I left of my own accord and met them shortly after. You see, they happen to be after some sort o' reward Skipper offered for the capture of the acting troupe and the other suspects. Is that a prob–"

"You little brat!" Shelton yelled.

The bard and dancer blinked at each other, then, hurried down the slope to the rest of the group. Dànaidh had Aya in a headlock, and Juniper and Hector each held one of Shelton's arms. Silver had tried to make himself useful by tugging on the stoat's tail.

"Fjord, grab the squirrel!" Hector commanded when he saw the pair. "They're the Skipper's pet trackers."

"Release Ms. Aya this instant!"

"I said grab him, hare!"

"S-sorry, old top." Before Cecil could resist, Fjord grasped the squirrel's wrists and spun him around so that he was held tight against the hare's chest, arms crisscrossed and down. For the first time, Fjord was grateful that they were all soaked. The trick wouldn't have worked with Cecil's bushy tail waving about.

O~O~O

"Fjord, why are you doing this?" Cecil asked, the confusion on his face lashing the dancer like a fire whip. "I thought we were friends."

Fjord grimaced, withdrawing for a moment before summoning the nerve to finish knotting the rope that held the bard to a tree. Juniper and Hector had already secured Aya and Shelton. "I'm sorry, Cec, but I have to get to Salamandastron. Mary's in trouble, and I can't..." Another wince. "You've lost your gel, old top. I can't lose mine."

"But I could help you," the squirrel whispered in earnest. "Please, come back with us for simply a day at the most. We merely need to show Skipper that you are innocent, then we can assist Mary. And find Dittany's murderer."

Cold water, much colder than the lake or river, sloshed about inside Fjord's stomach. "Cecil..." He couldn't give the squirrel a proper hug, so he had to settle for squeezing the bard's shoulder and pressing their foreheads together. "I'm sorry. Fates! I'm so sorry, Cecil. I promise, as soon as I know Mary's safe, I'll come back, and we'll find the monster who did this. Together, wot!"

"Fjord, hurry up," Hector called.

"Together," the dancer repeated, pulling away and rising. He glanced around at Hector and replied, "Almost finished." But instead of following after the fox as he retreated down the shoreline, Fjord reached into his pocket and produced a small blade. "Lucky you didn't stab me on the ride over here, you little villain," he muttered. Then, he leaned down again so that only Cecil could hear him. "This is one of Mary's throwing knives. I'm leaving it here for you." The dancer placed it on the ground just out of the reach of Cecil's footclaws.

"Why are–?"

"I have to come back for it," Fjord cut him off, straightening up. "So, you had better take good care of that, sah! Mary will know I've stolen it by now, wot. If you lose it, it'll be on my head–"

"_Come on_, Fjord!" This time it was June. The otter waved, a cheery, red smile plastered from ear-to-ear. Aya's pounding had once more tapped into the hidden fount of blood deep within the otter's nose, while Gergreg's fist had sealed his left eye shut. It was as though he had completely forgotten about Envie's death. "Don't want to lose the head start!"

Fjord took a step back, hackles rising. "He frightens me."

"Then why must you insist on going with them? Come back with us," the squirrel pleaded. "Let us prove that you are innocent."

The hare let his gaze linger on the bard. He could go back. He could make amends at Redwall before dashing off with a lot of strangers that he had known for a day and a half. He could let Mary wait that long, but...

"But why was he holding my paw?" The dancer looked at Juniper again. None of the troupe had explained that to him yet – how he came to be with the otter at the Abbey. He bit his lip. "I'm sorry, Cec."

Hector's Acting Troupe ran, and Fjord ran with them.


	37. Your Sanctuary

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 36. Your Sanctuary  
**

_by Vikraja  
_

"Okay," said Vikraja.

Claws akimbo, she flicked her tongue once at the weasel kit looking up at her. "You. Ztay. Here." She pointed right to where the babe sat, right in the center of her cart and a good distance away from anything that could be ruined. Which was everything.

Ella giggled. "Zzzzzztay!" She hissed, sticking her tongue out in an attempt to imitate the monitor.

Vikraja fidgeted; did that mean she understood? The lizard guessed there wasn't anything left to do but hope. Either way, the Faye-beast was going to have to pay by the fur for all the damage this was doing to her psyche.

The walk to Veil Village, however, managed to put her mind at ease. Vikraja tasted the air, gentle and sweet, and was glad to have it to herself—no snotnose hamster or vile weasel to bother her and get in the way. She was very nearly tempted to flee with Dominic once she'd found him, and leave the rest of them to rot. The odd weasel might be diseased, she thought, but he was the only creature she could trust.

_Maybe._ She caught herself. _He might be the murderer._ The monitor's scales itched with curiosity; this above all else, she had to find. Although, secretly, the monitor would eat her scarf before she could really believe that beast was a hot-blooded killer. And since she'd be forced to kill herself for eating her scarf, it was a meaningful wager.

For having such a pretty name, the village itself was old and reeked of emptiness, with shuttered windows and mute, broken-down roofs. There weren't many beasts about, but judging from the few she spotted, Vikraja wasn't eager to stay any longer than was strictly necessary. They were so _dirty_ and brutish looking; thugs and brigands, probably. And that one rat's tunic was so filthy that she would rather cut her tail off and hang herself with it than have to even look at it again.

_Ah, a zaloon,_ she thought, glancing up at the sign atop a building. She glanced back at her cart negligently. Just a quick peek; it couldn't be that easy to steal a cart. The door swung a little too eagerly as she pushed it, and she stumbled inside.

The monitor hissed and shielded her eyes. Somebeast had painted the walls an offensive shade of pink. A fox, scissors in paw, turned from a marten in a dingy chair to glare at the monitor. "Ugh, what in the bloody 'gates are you? Who let amphibians in my salon? Do you have an appointment?"

"Zmozh!" The monitor ducked out, scowling up at the sign; why did those words have to look so similar?

Vowing to forget all about _that_, Vikraja found that the actual saloon—more like an inn, really—was only a few tail-lengths away. Just as she was about to take a peek inside, the door swung open. The monitor half-leaped half-stumbled back mere seconds away from a bruised snout. "Lzzt! Watch it!"

"Oh, sorry miss…" A scruffy old stoat scurried around the door, and Vikraja recoiled—the creature was decrepit! "Well, there's no need to be like that. I said I was sorry."

Vikraja dipped her head, although she kept her tongue tucked away; she could smell the ale off the beast's ragged fur even without a proper check. "Z-zorry. Do you know where I could find a Dominic?"

The stoat's eyeswhiskers furrowed. "Funny. You don't look like the kind of beast he'd associate with. No offense," he added quickly as the monitor's claws twitched. "Just that… well… Dom is. Dom. Anyway, I haven't seen him around, actually. Hope he isn't callin' off work on account of plague again."

"Lizten," Vikraja said, glancing back; still there. "I juzt need to know where hiz houze iz."

"Just keep walkin'," the stoat said, pointing down the road. "You'll know when you see it. Crooked door 'n bits of thatch on the roof. If he's there, tell him that Mortram wants his cart back. And that if he doesn't plan on showing up tomorrow morning, to look for a new job. Tables don't wipe themselves."

"Okay." Vikraja scurried back her to cart, splaying her claws against the smooth ironwood. A creeping urgency had wormed its way into her heart and was making itself comfortable; she had to find Dom and get out.

_That muzt be it._ Vikraja stopped in front of a house set a little distance apart from the others. She rapped gingerly at the broken-down front door. "Dizeazel?"

No response.

The monitor waited, pacing a bit in front of the house. The cottage was a simple brown wood, fighting a losing battle against creeping ivy vines and the overwhelming scent of hopeless age. _Beaztz live like this?_ It was… sad.

_Maybe he'z sleeping._

The monitor would have rather stepped inside an adder pit than be swallowed alive by this_ thing_, but she slipped inside all the same, trying not to inhale more than strictly necessary.

She was standing in what appeared to be a sort of sitting room, although her eyes gravitated toward the kitchen area. Shockingly, it was pristine, despite being a little worn; pans and pots gleamed atop hooks and the woodstove was nice and polished with the firewood stacked beside it in a perfect triangle. Wanting to see more, Vikraja opened the cupboard and had to pause. The dishes were stacked in two neat rows, one of them all sterling and white and the other with a nice green floral pat—

Vikraja jerked back and slammed the door shut before the mold could spread; no wonder the weasel was diseased! How he managed to keep only one set of dishes clean was anybeast's guess.

She slunk down the hall, passing an empty washroom, and pulled at one of the doorknobs to no avail; frustratingly locked. Turning to the other, it twisted pleasantly in her claws and she peeked inside.

This was obviously the bedroom, but there was no dizeazel in sight. The room had a disagreeable scent to it, and Vikraja flicked her tail in disdain at the clothing hanging in the closet—patched, brown, grey, ragged, stained. Ewh. She supposed the black tunic he'd been wearing was the most presentable thing he owned. The tiny dresses and skirts and hats that were hung up were at least more colorful, but they would have made even the lowliest of merchants balk.

Turning back, she caught sight of the crib. And blinked. _Iz that… Etrurian cotton?_

In a heartbeat, the monitor was snuggling the blanket close. She had been searching for this stuff for seasons; what in the name of scales and fangs was such a rare and beautiful material doing here? It was like tossing platinum in a swamp. She longed to liberate it; it wasn't as if the weasel really needed it. Besides, he might have left forever.

She gathered it up in her claws—so rapturously soft! And all for that bratty little kit. It wasn't fair.

Vikraja froze, horrified; she'd forgotten all about the kit. _Peri'el knowz what she could be doing with my thingz!_

Claws skittering against the wooden planks, the monitor bounded through the hall and out the door. In that blind singular urge, she ended up running slap-bang into somebeast.

"Owww! Watch where you're going, y-"

The monitor froze. Standing in front of her, holding a great bloodstained sword, was Darron.

"You…!" Seized by fury, she hurled the blanket to the side. "Murderer! It waz you all along! I knew it, you vile, mizerable, tailezz dreck! I'll rip your throat out!"

"Wait." Darron's voice came out somewhat shriller than usual; even with the Sword of Martin, a flesh-eating monitor, eyes sheer slits and fangs bared, was enough to rattle anybeast.

The weasel dropped the sword and held his paws up. "Let's not jump to conclusions," he said.

Vikraja's tail slowly lowered to the ground; the usual cockyness that laced his voice was gone. She nodded and he went on.

"That hamster had this. Damned bastard ambushed us, took us by surprise. She killed my wife… I killed her for revenge." The weasel's voice was like a slab of obsidian, his eyes clouded. "That's all. Came to find you. Is my brother here?"

Vikraja shook her head. The weasel did seem shaken, and that would have explained the mysterious hunchback. "Maybe he really did run away," she mused. She picked up her blanket in shaky claws and held it close, her tongue bolting out as she made for the cart.

"Where are you going?" Darron asked.

The monitor didn't turn. "After him."

"Don't be daft," the weasel snorted, getting his nerve back. "Do you have any idea where he could have gone? He could be anywhere."

Whirling around, Vikraja snarled. "No, but I've got a bloody kit doing who knowz what to my thingz and I'll be damned if I don't get her back to him somehow." The monitor felt tears spring to her eyes, but it only made her angrier. She turned so that the weasel wouldn't have the satisfaction of seeing her upset and buried her claws in the blanket's cloud-soft innards. An idea formed from the murky thunderclouds upsetting her thoughts. "...We need to go back to the woodz."

"We?" Darron sneered. "You do what you like, but I'm going to find my brother."

Vikraja's tail slapped against the earth. "How far do you think you'll get on your own?"

"A damn sight further than you with that huge clattering thing."

"Fine! Go and rot for all I care!" Vikraja snapped. "But I'm keeping thiz," she marched over and picked the sword up; it was a lot heavier than it looked.

"By all means, madam," he said, bowing. "Good luck with that little brat. I'd suggest drowning it myself."

The weasel realized it probably wasn't the best idea to provoke an angry lizard who was holding a sword, and he made himself scarce before she could hurl it.

_All right. Breathe. Everything iz going to be okay. Juzt… one ztep at a time._

Mechanically, Vikraja returned to her cart and peered through the back, her tongue flitting out like a miniature azure lightning bolt.

Ella peeked back at her from inside the cauldron. "Zzzzzzzztay chokwit!"

"I really hate you."

"Ah! Hello there, miss!"

Vikraja whirled around; she was getting tired of everybeast and his brother startling her. It was all a big joke, wasn't it? "What do you wa-"

There was another monitor, right in front of her eyes. Was it an illusion? A dream? She was shocked into silence, although her mind flooded with questions. What was he doing here? Where was he from? He couldn't be from her Zran. He smelled nice, but she couldn't quite place it; some kind of spice, maybe.

"Sorry, marm, didn't mean to scare you." The voice, belonging to a fox, jolted Vikraja out of the curse and she shut her mouth with a snap. "If you don't mind me asking, who were you talking to just now?"

Vikraja pouted. "I do mind, thank you very much. It'z none of your buzinezz."

She felt a faint tugging at the blanket in her claws and twisted her neck around.

"B-banky!" The little weasel's voice was muffled by the blanket she had bitten. Vikraja despaired internally; priceless Etrurian cotton! Ruined by drool! Curse the fates.

"Ah!" The fox exclaimed. "Is that the one we're looking for, I wonder?"

Vikraja placed herself firmly in front of cart, blocking the kit. "What do you mean?"

The male monitor finally spoke, and once again, Vikraja head was abuzz with curiosity bees. "Lizten, we mean you no harm. We juzt need to bring thiz kit back to her father."

_Oh, thank Peri'el!_ All she had to do was hand the brat over and—

"No." The monitor stood her ground, glaring at the two beasts. "How do I know you'll really give her back? For all I know you juzt want to eat her. And I found her firzt."

The fox chuckled. "I assure you, miss, eating her is the last thing on our minds. Please give her to us. We… can't say anything else, but you have to believe us."

"Well then, I'm afraid that'z that." Vikraja crossed her arms over her chest. "Unlezz you take me, too."

The two creatures exchanged glances.

"You won't be able to return," the fox said, his voice soft. "Once you come with us, you'll never be able to go back."

Vikraja felt more tugging at the blanket in her claws and her will resolved. "Fine. I want to know what'z going on."

"Exzellent," the male said, with a smile. "Let'z go."


	38. Symmetrical Positions

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 37. Symmetrical Positions  
**

_by Daskin  
_

"Time is the school in which we learn,  
Time is the fire in which we burn."  
-Delmore Schwartz

Setting up the pieces had taken on the flavor of a peculiar ritual; no longer needing to consciously remember which carved figure went on a square, the whole process became meditative, an opportunity—or perhaps an obligation—to think of nothing at all. And so Daskin blocked out the dangers of the situation; they may be pursued by a gang of amateur bounty hunters, but he still had his game, in this short break from their journey.

Hector reached out and moved a pawn forward, adding his usual flourish to even this economical gesture.

"I worried that'd we'd lost you." _Click._ Daskin pushed a pawn to meet Hector's, punctuating the fox's sentence with the staccato click of a piece landing on its new square.

"But Envie… Envie drowned."

"He did, and that's bad enough. We'll all miss him, and I don't look forward to doing without. But Envie drowning…" Hector's voice trailed off. He moved a knight. "…Envie drowning was a nasty accident. You drowning would have been disaster."

Daskin defended. "I wouldn't fancy you having to answer to my parents for that. They'd be short an heir, and after all the trouble they'd put into keeping me out of harm's way." He snorted. "What with sending me to Redwall."

Hector's eyes were downcast. He had a move on the board, but rather disliked his position in the conversation. _Click._ Honesty was the best policy, or so the saying went. "I can't speak for them; it isn't my place."

Daskin nodded, and played the next few moves in silence. Then: "Pawn sacrifice, really?"

"I thought it up a few days ago, decided to try it out on you." Hector's expression gave nothing away.

"It isn't your place to question my parents, no. But you think something, surely?" Daskin took the pawn.

"Surely."

"Hmph!" Daskin frowned. "So what is it?"

"It isn't coherent, is it? They hear rumors of a plot, so they ship you and Mama Kenzie off to run an inn in the middle of nowhere, to protect you. But then they send you off into the middle of a gathering of the Lords of Mossflower, any one of whom might recognize you given half a chance, and more than a few of whom have reasons to harm any Stirling they happen across." Hector moved a pawn, threatening Daskin's bishop, an elegantly carved ferret scribe.

"Mmmmm." _Click._ "They thought their note would protect me, maybe?"

Hector shoved a pawn into the center of the board. "Would it, from an assassin? From somebeast who knew full well he wanted to do you harm?" The fox's voice crackled with barely-restrained anger, rising a bit. "They ought to keep you safe," Hector snarled.

_Click. Click… click._ The position only became more complicated.

"They try," Daskin muttered, but his eyes were already glistening.

"_I_ try," Hector hissed, and a look of surprise flickered across his muzzle and was gone, replaced by his perfect actor's composure once again. He shifted, uncomfortable, and scanned the position. "But it is certainly not my place to speak of that. My lord," he added quietly. _Click._

Daskin sniffled. "You… do try." Daskin stifled the impulse to clamber around the board and into the fox's lap. _It wouldn't be respectable to do that. Focus._ He played a move, a harmless retreat.

Hector squinted at the board, and then looked back up at Daskin. "We shouldn't be playing, I don't think. Not now I've… upset you." Hector moved anyway.

"No!" Daskin replied, a little too loudly. "I'm—I'll be fine." His position had become delicate… _If I go here… we'll end up trading most everything, and I'll win with the spare pawn._ "I'm not upset." Daskin sniffled again.

Hector didn't reply, studying the board for a long moment. "You're awfully leaky, for somebeast not upset," he eventually said. "Also, if you weren't upset," and here the fox smiled, eyes still downcast, "you wouldn't have missed this." Hector moved, rather bluntly threatening the ferret's king.

Daskin's eyes widened. _Am I losing? I go there, he goes there… I win another pawn. But it's not _safe_, is it? Can I do better?_

Hector opened his mouth and then shut it again with an audible snap. "I—Never mind."

"You're winning, probably." His forehead resting on a paw, Daskin glared at his pieces. "I don't see anything better than this." _Click._

"Do you know why they sent you? Was it in one of those letters?"

Daskin swallowed. "Yes." A few moves passed, exchanges that left the position razor-sharp. "It was a… lesson. In listening and in remaining unseen. If I'm to take father's place—"

"—they'd risk you for _that_—"

"—it makes sense," Daskin cut off Hector's response. "If I can't take over for him…"

"You're still their son, and they should still keep you safe." _Click._

_Safe?_

Daskin wobbled in place, couldn't quite see the board. Without thinking, he scrambled around it, his footpaw knocking against the side, and wrapped short arms around the fox's neck, shaking with sudden sobs.

_This is undignified, get up, get up, get up!_

Hector smelled like smoke and grass and fox, and Daskin lay his head on the troupe master's shoulder. His sobs quieted, his breathing gradually returned to its normal pace.

He made no move to stand up.

"I resign," Daskin choked out, and laughed.

###

A few hours passed, and the sun sank in the sky, heavy yet still golden. His chess game forgotten, Daskin lay, napping, in the cart.

"Silver."

"Hm—aaaahhh!" Daskin opened his eyes to see Juniper almost nose-to-nose with him. Juniper jumped back, roaring with laughter. "Oh, very funny."

"I know, I never get tired of that! But hop off the cart, I'm meant to be fixing it up so we can push it better."

Daskin climbed down onto the grass, wiping the sleep-gunk out of his eyes. The cart rattled a bit in place as Juniper tugged at the wheel. He didn't consider himself an expert engineer, or even a novice engineer, but Daskin nevertheless decided that the otter would only break the poor cart even worse than the river already had. _If he manages to do anything to it at all._

Daskin tugged at the hem of Juniper's tunic. The otter ignored him, poking at the axle. He tugged again.

"Hey, stop that." Juniper shook a fist at the little ferret.

"Or ye'll cuff 'im?" a voice cut in, rough and with a bit of a sneer behind it. Juniper's eyes widened.

"It was only in fun," the otter muttered, backing away from Dànaidh.

"Well." Dànaidh looked thoughtful, a rather foreign expression on his muzzle. "Come ta that, the lad cannae cuff ye back." He grinned wickedly. "An' that's a raight shame." He placed one heavy paw on Daskin's shoulder and steered the ferret away from the cart.

"What're you doing with Silver?" Juniper challenged.

"Auld as he is, would be rough for him if he got into a tussle." Dànaidh moved Daskin as though he were a wooden doll; he nudged Daskin's legs into a semblance of a proper stance.

"You're thinking to teach me how to fight?" Daskin shied away a bit, looking to disappear behind Juniper, who had taken a few steps forward.

"I don't think that's a good idea." Juniper stood tall, despite the obvious fear that had his fur bristling.

Dànaidh stared. "Ach, what's wrong wit' a bit o' knowledge in the fine art o' pugilism?" The hedgehog stepped forward, and unloaded a slow punch in the otter's direction—flailing to block, Juniper tripped over Daskin, sending the two of them to the ground in a heap. "Get up, lad," he said to Daskin, smiling again and offering the ferret a big paw. "And I don't intend to hurt him, ya daft riverdog. But if ya think ye're protecting the lad, and I can knock ye over and nae _hit_ ya, the wee ferret could use a lesson, surely."

"For the last time, I don't play Shirley!"

"Surely. Juniper. As in, 'for certain'."

"Oh."

"Here, Silver. Stand like—" Dànaidh appraised Daskin's stance, which the ferret had shakily reassumed. "Nae bad."

_He's going to hit me. He's going to—_

"I'm nae going ta hit ye. Try an hit me, see if ye can."

Daskin reached out with a halfhearted punch, aimed about three inches short of the hedgehog's jaw. Dànaidh watched it, motionless.

"Try fer true. I ain't gonna let ye clip me, an' if'n ye do, ya cannae hurt a big beastie like me." Daskin punched again, putting his full weight behind it—Dànaidh blocked with a lazy paw. "Watch." He swung for Daskin's jaw as though he were punching through treacle, and the ferret mimicked the blocking motion, rocking a little at even the slow impact of Dànaidh's punch.

Soon, under Juniper's watchful eye, the two were bouncing back and forth on the grass, trading gentle blows, Daskin's coming with more and more confidence. His punches snapped against Dànaidh's forearms, and Daskin imagined himself fighting off a pursuer, somebeast like the squirrel they'd left tied up. Then—Daskin blocked, and stepped in hard, rattling Dànaidh's jaw before he realized what he'd done.

_I'm… about to die._ Daskin froze. He could smell the hedgehog, acrid sweat and… something like licorice?

Dànaidh looked dazed for a second, and then burst out laughing. "Very good, lad! If ya fight somebeast who's taller, then ya look fer a chance ta do that!" He clapped Daskin on the back, nearly sending the kit sprawling. "That big otter will be looking tae _you_ fer protection, 'fore long."

"It's just like chess! You stay safe and wait for a chance, right?"

"I dinnae know aboot chess, but ya ken right 'nuff."

"Will you teach me more later?"

Dànaidh nodded, and looked past Daskin for a split second before smiling his crooked smile and ambling off. Juniper watched the hedgehog go.

"He's an odd fellow."

Daskin shrugged. "He reminds me of some of the guards, back at home. I thought I'd be flattened for sure, when I hit him."

Juniper circled around behind Daskin, and swiftly pinned his paws behind his back, tripping him as well.

"Ack!"

"Leave the flattening to me!"


	39. Never Gonna Give You Up

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 38. Never Gonna Give You Up  
**

_by Dominic  
_

The chocolate was just chocolate.

But by that point, Dominic wouldn't have cared either way.

He held her tight, to the point of drawing blood from his arms with his claws. He'd fallen to his knees. His nose pressed into her neck. He couldn't breathe in or out. His chest burned, but he couldn't bear to say her name, or smell her to confirm she was real. He didn't need to.

It was a perfect moment.

"If'n this is the kit ye were trying to save, ye're doing a pretty shoddy job at the moment," Shandi said. "Mr. Kitcrusher."

"Are eyes supposed to pop out like that?" Rod whispered.

Dominic ignored the comments, or possibly didn't hear them at all. His world was focused. Private.

Ella wheezed quietly in his ear. Then she licked it.

At long last, the tension dissolved. Ella's eyes no longer threatened to explode out of her head, and Dominic found his breath again. He reveled in the musky cocoa flavour before sneezing violently from the still-strong Jasmine overtones.

"Aw," he said, folding the pawkerchief away again. "I was hoping this one would last longer."

He began to wipe the cocoa off Ella's face with his tunic. She tried to bite him. It was the most normal thing that had happened in his life for the longest time.

Oakey wiped her eyes. "Touching. A heart-wrenchin', poignant moment ter echo through me years as a testament ter th' power of love. Now let's move our rudders! C'mon, sun's almost down." The otter glanced at the rest. "Cones, get that ridiculous thing off yer head."

"I'm not Conez..."

"This is Vikraja," Rod the todfox said. "She had Ella in her cart. Wouldn't let us have her without bringing her to Dominic first. Cones is bringing up the rear, making sure we're not being followed."

"Th-thank you," Dominic said, standing up. Ella clung to his neck and buried her face into his fur with a zheep. Dominic couldn't bring himself to look Vikraja in the eyes. "Again."

"Just hold on a minute, Nicky. Who is this lizard?"

Vikraja flared her nostrils imperiously, but Dominic spoke next. "She's a traveling merchant. I met her on the road. She helped look after Ella when I fell asleep, and then... she's been helping me ever since." He chanced a look at her face. He couldn't read it, and looked away again. "I don't know why. But she's trustworthy."

"Aye, we met at Redwall, and we got to talking a bit. She's harmless," Shandi said. "Well, harmless enough."

"Both of ye vouch fer her? Good enough fer me," Oakey said.

Something was bothering Dominic.

"Vikraja... How did you find Ella?"

"Er... The weazel in the drezz gave her to me, to hide from the other weazel. The rude one."

Dominic's shoulders sagged in relief. "Faye found her, then..."

But Darron had found Faye. Dominic groaned. She would have to find somebeast else to help patch up the bruises this time. Unless she managed to find him at Rillrock... Would one of the Sentinels allow him to send her a message? A simple "I'm sorry" should suffice, if nothing else. Faye would never have been put in that situation if he hadn't been distracted enough to lose Ella again.

"Yez... about Faye..."

"I hope she's alright," Dominic said. His eyes widened as he caught sight of something pink the lizard was clutching. "Oh, look at that, you have the same blanket Ella does. That's interesting."

"Oh, er..."

"The one I bought was terribly expensive. I had to borrow money from Mortram. But it was worth it. Ella loves her blanky."

"That remindz me! He wantz hiz cart back."

Dominic stomped his footpaw. "Darron! He _never_ returns things. I need to tell him it's at Faye's house. Rod, what about the village? Is it safe for me to go back?"

Rod scratched his neck. "Welllll, we didn't get that great a look at it entirely. But the vixen we asked, Marlyn, she was nice enough when we asked about you."

Cones had arrived by now, and chuckled at this. "Then you had to azk her age..."

"Low blow, Cones. Don't think I didn't see you making eyes at- ow!" Rod rubbed his head where Cones clouted him behind the ear. Dominic reached up behind his own ear with a wince. The bruise from the bell tower's collapse was still there. Probably festering and oozing by now. He was glad he couldn't see it.

"The town iz zafe," Cones said, turning to Oakey and Dominic. "Rod and I will finish our job."

"Can I come?" Dominic said, stepping forward eagerly. "To help pack my things, and tell Walkin where I'll be going?"

"No tellin' anybeast anythin'," Oakey said. "Not a word! Gotta say anythin' at all, say you're goin' away ter Southsward or summat. Forever."

"To die of plague," Shandi suggested.

"They never believe me," Dominic pouted.

His symptoms were gone. He had a new theory now: that Walkin had laced his teas over the months with some kind of cure-all. He'd probably got it from Redwall. All the stoat's strange trips to the city, the way he never let Dominic behind the counter to prepare drinks himself. It made sense. And now he was cured, and the only strange thing he'd eaten was that medicine and maybe that vegetable pasty.

It made sense. After all, how many times could a single weasel contract a deadly, highly contagious illness and recover from it, without anyone else in the village getting it? Walkin had probably been feeding the cure to every customer who came in. But then the question remained: what else had Walkin been putting in his drinks? Roundworm eggs? Sleep deprivation drugs? The possibilities were endless. The effects could take hold at any time. He couldn't relax with that knowledge in his head. He shouldn't have shouted at the stoat for letting Ella drink ale that one time. Now he was on Walkin's bad side. Would he even care if Dominic came back? Would he open the tavern door and find a party in progress?

Maybe he shouldn't go back...

"It's fine with me if you hitch along," Rod said. "Give us a better idea what to pack up if you're there to oversee it."

"Keep 'im close," Oakey said. "Shandi an' Vikkerface, th' new lizard, th' two of ye are comin' with me."

"Where?" Vikraja said.

"We'll talk on th' way."

"I'm not leaving." The monitor folded her arms. "I'm ztaying with the diz- with Dominic."

"I'll be fine," Dominic said. He gave a reassuring smile that would have unsettled a blind trapeze acrobat. "It won't take long."

With a bit more wrangling, they managed to head back into the village. Dominic clutched Ella tightly. Her dress was still soaked with cocoa and it was seeping into his tunic. He had a feeling Belette would be annoyed by this. But he didn't mind. He would never put Ella down again.

Belette! He couldn't wait to go back to Rillrock and see her again. He wanted to ask about Hannah. But first...

Dominic felt a great weight leave him as he stepped inside his house. In here, he was safe. Safe from Darron. Safe from the cold, except the one window that was stuck open. Safe from the rain, so long as the thatch held. Here was his sanctuary. Here were his memories. The good outweighed the bad. Ella had lived here longer than Lily had.

He did not want to leave.

Rod and Cones began firing off questions as they stuffed their haversacks. Dominic tried to answer as best he could.

"Two sets of dishes here, need 'em?"

"Just take the smaller set, it's Ella's."

"Which clothez?"

"Everything of Ella's. Don't forget the hat with the wooden ant pinned to the band, that's her favourite. Get her bedding, too! And the diapers are in the drawer." How terrible if he forgot those again!

Dominic collected his own things. A spare tunic and belt, a box full of herbs and powders, his favourite knife and fork and plate, an hourglass- make it two- and lastly... He produced a key and unlocked the door at the end of the hall.

The room was nearly bare. The pink walls were cracked and faded, the pain peeling. Crates of belongings were stacked all around. They were things Faye's parents had left behind. It had been her house, before she moved in with Darron. When her parents died, she had let Dominic move in. It had been like a castle to him, compared to the toolshed he'd occupied for the previous four years since his brother's marriage.

He rummaged in the nearest crate, careful not to let Ella slip from his shoulder. She was sound asleep. After a few minutes, he extracted a makeshift bird of some sort. It was all made of pinecones and sap, like Hannah's dolls. This he wrapped up in one of Faye's old dresses, and placed very carefully on top of the rest of the things in his haversack. A memento.

"I think that's about it," he said, coming back to the main room. Rod stared at him. He and Cones were waiting in the open doorway.

"That's it? That's all you have?"

Dominic clutched the haversack tightly. He shifted it to hold up Ella's backside better.

"It's all I need."

"it's practically empty! What about your clothes, your-"

"Paw-me-downs. If I'm starting a new life, I'm taking what's _mine_."

Rod grinned lopsidedly. "Glad you're not a packrat. Er, packweasel. We should make good time, then. Anything else?"

Dominic stared around at the walls one last time. He really did not want to leave. It wasn't fair. This was his life. This was Ella's life. And he was just to throw it all away? One little mistake. It shouldn't have mattered. Dozens of beasts had died at Redwall that night. It wasn't his fault. They were the ones who had ordered the stupid ale.

"No. I think that's it."

He should tell Walkin, though. He should tell Mortram where his cart was.

Cones leaned back inside the house. His expression was dour, as far as Dominic could tell. Maybe he was just mad about his tongue being cut in half. Fates, he'd forgot to see if Vikraja's tongue was the same or not.

"There'z a commotion. We need to get moving. No goodbyez for you, Dominic."

Dominic flicked his ears. He could hear somebeast shouting down the street. Some of the words he could filter through were "Redwall", "murder", "bounty" and... his name! Hellgates!

Rod heard it, too. "Grave" didn't do his face justice. His mouth was a ditch filled with bodies.

"Don't run," he cautioned. "Walk fast. Jog. Don't do anything to bring attention to ourselves."

Dominic liked to think that he _tried_ to just walk fast. Maybe he'd started out at a jog and moved into sprint when he'd thought he'd been walking and moving into a jog. But next thing he knew, he was running, Ella being jostled awake. Her chin struck his shoulder with each step. He winced, but kept running.

He reached the edge of town and skidded across the dusty patch of wasteland before the treeline. He could hear Vikraja and Shandi's voices growing clearer:

"-no, you definitely want horizontal ztripez, if any ztripez at all."

"Does it have a matching skirt?"

"Um. The ztripez are... that _iz_ the zkirt. Do not... do not wear ztripez above the waiztline. Ever."

"Like I'd buy yer granny shawls anyways."

"It'z not a shawl-"

"The village!" Dominic shouted, gasping for air. He leapt over the last little scratchy bush and dove into their hiding spot. Rod and Cones were hot on his heels, tails streaming. "The village is _not_ safe! Not saaaaafe!"


	40. Foul is Fair

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 39. Foul is Fair  
**

_by Dànaidh_

A bright sun hung in a cloudless sky. Though the temperature was pleasant and cool, the lack of shade covered the terrain in a light coat of golden heat. Dànaidh snorted from the back of his throat, desperate for a bit of moisture to soothe the oven in his mouth. Sweat stood in for uncried tears and wept along his paws, his arms and down his legs as he heaved along the path. He bit down on the last stub of blackroot he had—waterlogged and bent as it was—and gripped his paws tighter against the rope, pulling with every ounce his exhausted back could give. His straining mind pranced back to the river, thanks to the sweet-smelling Haze dancing at the edges of his eyes…

_The whirling, twirling, swirling, churning cold whirlpool snatched the cart and its occupants and plunged them beneath their world, shaking them about in a dark, wet realm where few sentients survived, threatening to rend the flesh from their bones. Light pierced through velvety shadow in spasms, and as quickly as the ordeal began, the troupe emerged sopping, shivering and clinging to flotsam. The current pushed them further down the stream and gradually slowed to a crawl. Dànaidh clung to what remained of the torn and muddied tarp as it meandered into the shallows and the reeds, bobbing and rocking like a mother's arms…_

"'n' her footpaws?"

Dànaidh blinked. The dusty path expanded in his field of vision, the tarp replaced by a haze-bitten, humid field framing them on either side, its tall grass stationary in the dead air. Across the bright horizon, a hunting bird cried out its attack; somewhere, a small beast became its lunch.

"Och, y'fall tired on me, Danny?" Juniper grinned as he tugged on the other rope.

After shaking the haze from their near-drowning and binding their sudden attackers, the troupe set off down a farmer's path.

They traveled only a few steps when Alastia set into a fit of wailing about her sore footpaws, and she quietly prodded Thera into her own complaints and declaration to Hector that an actress of her caliber would _never_ concede to walking on a journey—it was beneath her. As the two actresses plopped down (as gracefully as possible) onto the path, Hector turned to the gentlebeasts behind him with a sigh. Dànaidh threw his arms up and the Gergregs moaned in harmony, but to no avail. Something would have to be done.

Dànaidh shook his head and grinned at Juniper's comment. "June lad…ye speak lik' a true high-'og. I'm sure yer bonny blether'd impress ferr a few fair lasses frae m'plot."

Juniper nodded, lifting his chin. "A'course! I'm ferr a 'andsome catch to th'lasses, ye see."

"Oh, quite?" Dànaidh asked in mock astonishment.

The gentlebeasts of the troupe sat about working with what had floated to shore from the wreckage of their cart, sifting through driftwood, planks and assorted length of rope until they were able to find the back end of the cart that was in one piece and relatively undamaged. Juniper fetched a missing wheel that had fallen off the back axel from a muddy clump of reeds, and Hector and Fjord set about fashioning it into a rickshaw, pulled a length of rope around its length that met at the front, and handed the limp ends to Juniper and Dànaidh. The pair looked at each other. Juniper laughed and clapped Dànaidh on the chest; Dànaidh dropped his head.

So once again, despite lacking a completed cart, Dànaidh and Juniper found themselves on the giving end of troupe transport, dragging the makeshift rickshaw that teetered and wobbled like a drunken mole riding rodeo on the back of a tsunami. Dànaidh sighed as he adjusted his grip for the fifth time, wondering why Juniper couldn't have found another wheel to off-set the horrible, non-existent balancing act they were attempting, with the troupe threatened into remaining still as they betrayed every law of gravity and physics on their crawl towards Salamandastron, kicking up an impressive cloud of dust behind them.

Dànaidh blew through his lips as he thought. "Footpaws, y'say?"

"Aye," Juniper said.

Dànaidh nodded. "Her footpaws are lik' two islands: burly 'n' tough, fit 'nough fer kits 'n' husbands tae step oan, 'n' stout 'nough tae break an arse!" He leaned forward and snickered into his paws as Juniper shook his head.

"I say!" Fjord called from behind them. "Not to interrupt this terribly romantic venture you two are endeavoring on, but I wonder: are we close to stabbing her any time soon?"

The two at front turned their heads and stared back at Fjord. The hare balked and shook his head. "I mean, are we jolly well close to stopping? I've splinters in my backside complaining of splinters, wot."

Dànaidh turned back and glanced up at the sun. "Dinnae," he said.

"Well, I for one vote we stop," Alastia shot, frowning from her spot in the middle. "It's hot and crowded, and I'm thirsty!"

"Rather," Fjord added, pulling at a splinter.

"Oh, are we voting on what we do now?" Juniper asked. "I vote we go on to the next city…Bostitch, I think it was…and do the show there—"

"We're not going to Bostitch," Hector interrupted, "and we're not doing the show, June. The show's closed for now."

"Not going to Bostitch?" Juniper asked, shocked.

"Headed to Salamandastron, wot."

"And we need to keep moving."

"We need to _stop,_" Alastia said.

"Who made you th' queen o' this cart, missie?" Dànaidh said.

Alastia growled.

"But I was _certain_ Bostitch was next on our itinerary," Juniper continued.

"I need to rest, Hector," Thera said, wiping at her brow. "I could use some water, too."

"Just relax, dear," Hector said curtly. "We're getting there."

"Alastia's getting red," Gergreg said.

"She's gonna blow," said Gergreg.

"I'm sure we could recover our losses from one night's performance—"

"June, _be quiet!_" Hector's tone betrayed his loss of control.

"How dare you speak to me like that, you—you commoner!" Alastia erupted. "You…you _slave!_"

Dànaidh dropped his rope and halted, his spikes rising. "Care tae repeat that, gal?"

"Everybody _shut up!_"

The conversation died. All eyes fell on Daskin, who stood with balled paws shaking by his sides. "You all talk so much," he said, his eyes glaring in frustration, "and you think what _you_ have to say is important—well, _you don't have to talk all at once!_"

Hector sighed and nodded to Juniper and Dànaidh. "We'll keep moving for now. Fjord, give them that pot there…it's warm, but at least it's wet."

Juniper accepted the pot first and drank two mouthfuls, handing it to Dànaidh. The hedgehog winked at Alastia as he lifted the pot to his lips.

"I hope you choke, cretin," she said.

Dànaidh pulled the pot away and spat a thin, clear line onto her snout through his front teeth. "Cor bless yer bonnie eyes," he said, bending in a mock bow.

"Let's get moving," Hector said.

"Aye," Dànaidh said, spitting into his paws and rubbing the liquid over the blisters. "Let's."

_(~#~)_

Dànaidh and Juniper pulled until afternoon sank into evening in beautiful shades of amber, brass, crimson, rose and orchid, a brilliant presentation splayed across the firmament and gathering clouds. After much debate and arguments, the pair pulled the troupe into the cover of an outcrop of slate that hid a fresh stream that spilled into a tiny pond. The actors fell off the cart and groaned as they eased blood back into aching shoulders and backsides, but all were glad to be free from the uncomfortable ride. Dànaidh leaned his head forward and rubbed at his neck.

"Sure'n I'll be glad when we can stop fer a while," he said.

Fjord hopped up. "Could do with an up and about myself—joints need a good stretching."

Dànaidh pointed to the whip lying dormant at Fjord's side. "How fast are ye wi' that whip?"

"Fast enough to take a score of quills from your back without you noticing, I wager," he said. He stretched his arms and swung them back and forth.

"I'd lik' tae see that, if yer sport 'nough fer a spar." Dànaidh bent over and popped his spine, rubbing at his footpaws as he turned and cracked his neck. "Fancy a match?"

"A match?" The hare smiled, backing away and tugging at an ear. "W—well, that's an interesting proposition, sah. Perhaps another time, eh? Not as though I'm worried, mind you! I dare say I could give your spikes a clip they won't soon forget. But we're all a bit tired and—ooo! Is that Juniper?"

Juniper walked out in front of them, sopping wet.

"Silver!" Juniper looked around at the two. "I've caught dinner…I say, what's going on here? Masculine posturing and the sort?"

"Just polite conversation, June," Dànaidh said.

"Nothing serious," Fjord added, drawing up his whip.

Juniper smiled. "Oh! Terribly sorry I interrupted your talk! Well, carry on, then. Supper time, Sil—!"

"Lookin' fer th' wee one?" Dànaidh asked. He waved off Juniper. "I'll fin' him, June. Dinna worry yersel'." He nodded to Fjord before heading off. "I'm comin' around…jus' ye hauld yer badgers."

"But—" Juniper began.

Dànaidh silenced him with a raised paw. "I got it, June."

Juniper shrugged and leapt into conversation with Fjord, asking him unanswerable questions about flaming flower pots and shooting arrows with his ears. Dànaidh chuckled to himself and sauntered through the encampment, greeting the scattered troupe with a wave and call as he looked for the small ferret. Many of the actors were already eating gathered berries and Juniper's fresh catch or reclining, enjoying the shade from the falling sun. Dànaidh poked around each rock but didn't see Daskin. He frowned and narrowed his eyes.

_The Edge called to him with a sweet smell, something akin to summer strawberries with fresh cream or exotic cocoa spiced with ale. It was smooth and sharp, vivid and exciting. Dànaidh allowed himself to approach The Edge, and peered over it into The Haze._

_The Haze cried out to him: 'The Abbess!'_

_Stop,_Dànaidh thought.

_'If you want our help, you'll listen!'_

_Don't box me around. I control _you._ Help me find the boy._

_'We killed an innocent creature!'_

_She wasn't as innocent as you thought. You weren't there…you didn't see…_

_'We saw enough! We gave you the strength to snap her bones!'_

_Stop._

_'You broke her body, Dànaidh, Son of the Skinner. You will reap what you have sown!'_

_Stop it, damn you! Help me find this child and LEAVE ME._

_'Skin for Skin, Son of Violence. Your conscience shall pierce your soul and bleed you dry!'_

_Find the child!_

_'Remember the Abbess, Dànaidh!'_

He saw Daskin. The Haze cleared a path through its billowing depth, guiding Dànaidh's pawsteps as he maneuvered through several tight crevasses and climbed over the top of a moderate boulder. Just beyond the boulder lay the pond, an oasis of soft grasses and moss and several overhanging willows surrounded by the stoic slabs of rock. Daskin sat on his stomach along one of the thicker branches of the closest willow, his arms tucked underneath his chin as he swung his footpaws back and forth against his thighs. Dànaidh widened his eyes and The Haze washed away in the harsh tide of consciousness, nimble leftovers clinging to their perch in his mind's eye as they followed the spicy cloud away, back where the dreams lived.

Dànaidh leaned down against the boulder and cupped a paw around his mouth. "Daskin!" he whispered. Daskin turned around in the tree and gave a small wave.

"'Tis time tae eat!" Dànaidh whispered, moving his head back towards camp.

Daskin nodded and sat up, brushing off the front of his shirt. He reached up and caught an overhead branch, swung up and out, and landed perfectly on the boulder. Dànaidh pursed his lips and nodded in approval.

"What'cha doin' over there, lad?" Dànaidh asked, patting the young ferret down and freeing him from leaves, twigs and other cling-ons. "Havin' a moment'a peace tae y'self?"

"Sorta," Daskin said. "Sometimes I just like to go and think, you know? Just by myself." He snorted. "But then the girls came."

"Girls?" Dànaidh asked.

Daskin nodded. "Yeah. Alastia and Thera. They're down there, in the pond."

Dànaidh raised an eyebrow, confused. "In th' pond? What in th' good name'a Merrion Maclachland are they—"

His voice caught in his throat. Down below the boulder, Alastia and Thera bathed in the cool waters of the pond. The vixen and wildcat had disrobed and carefully folded their clothing atop a nearby log, and were now enjoying the comforts of fresh water, washing away several days' worth of grime, dust and sweat. Alastia had her back to Dànaidh as she stood up from the water, granting the 'hog an excellent view of her ample backside and surly hips as she stepped up to dry land and began shaking droplets free from her fur, her tail swinging to and fro lazily.

"Cor bless me…she's a fair sight prettier when she's nae hollerin'," Dànaidh whispered. "But I wonder where—"

As if on command, Thera appeared from beneath the water, rising like a phoenix from a glistening, enhancing, wet pile of ashes. She rocketed to her footpaws, her head leaning back and eyes closed as she ran her paws through her headfur, allowing the water to run across her naked body. Dànaidh's eyes threatened to envelop his entire face as his mouth trailed down to his bellybutton. Droplets trickled down from her smooth, slender neck, teased around her curved, ample bosom, dripped down her flat and toned stomach and arced between her willowy, sleek legs. Dying sunlight lit up her shiny body like a torch on top of a mountain, and Dànaidh immediately felt torrential heat pour up from his torso and out around his neck like a furnace burning for a thousand seasons. Thera visibly sighed as she ran a paw on the same course Dànaidh's eyes took, caressing her neck and bosom, teasing down the front of her stomach to rest at the nape of—

_"Bastard of Nunlea!"_ Dànaidh said, driving his head forward against the boulder. He recoiled in pain and surprise, his eyes swimming in their sockets for a moment before he shook the twirling stars away. "Eeeeeh…'tis better now."

"What happened?" Daskin asked.

Dànaidh rubbed his forehead and pushed the small ferret along down the boulder. "Hang on a tic, eh Daskin? Jus' a moment." Dànaidh stood up on the boulder and cried out to the naked ladies below, "Splendid job, lasses! Might I suggest ye gaither by th' fire soon—looks t'me lik' yer gettin' awful cold!" He cawed and ducked down as a sizeable rock flew past where his head had been, followed by a chorus of angry, colorful curses and horrible threats.

As Daskin and Dànaidh walked back towards camp, Dànaidh slowed and knelt by Daskin.

"Lad, d'ye know 'ow come them lasses were cross?"

Daskin thought for a moment. "Because they were naked, and we were looking at them?"

Dànaidh nodded. "Aye."

"But why are they angry?" Daskin asked. "And why do they have to go off so far away from everyone else to take a bath?"

"Well," Dànaidh said, "'tis…"

"They almost make it seem like it's wrong. Why should we be upset, Dànaidh?"

Dànaidh rubbed his chin. "Daskin…has yer faither ever told ye 'bout…lads and lasses?"

Daskin looked confused.

"Er." Dànaidh swallowed and grimaced. "Um, y'see…Daskin…"

"Yes?"

"Thare comes a time in everybeast's life...dinna matter if they're a wee jimmy or lassie...when things 'appen. Changes, ye see."

"Changes," Daskin repeated.

"Aye," Dànaidh said slowly. The hedgehog frowned and stood up. "Now lissen closely, lad. I'm gaun t'tell ye this straet oot, 'n' nae speil any games, aye? 'Tis time yer tellt how 'tis." He locked eyes with Daskin and nodded. "When a wee jimmy likes a lassie, he feels it...down thare." Dànaidh gestured quickly towards Daskin's nether-region. "That's normal. 'Tis how ye were made. Yer faither 'n' mither, jus' lik' mah faither 'n' mither, felt an urge, 'n' satisfied it. You'll cop it when ye spot a bonny lassie, 'n' if she's fair gam fer it…ye wilnae forget it."

Daskin stared down below his belly. "I don't feel anything."

"Well, a'course ye dinnae! Nae when there's two jimmies 'bout. Jus' bring a bonny lass 'round, 'n' you'll notice a change." Dànaidh put an arm around Daskin's shoulders. "Come on, lad. Let's back tae camp."

"But what happens?" Daskin asked as they continued their walk.

Dànaidh's face grew serious. "'Tis sweet 'n' harsh, 'n' passionate 'n' violent, sae dinnae fankle around wi' it if ye dinnae ken what ye'r daein'." He shook his head. "You'll break 'er heart 'n' end up foldin' paper bouquets fer th' rest o' yer days."

"I'm…confused…" Daskin said, thinking. "Sweet and harsh…passionate and violent…you hurt her?"

"Well, you can, but maist girls dinnae lik' that—"

"What do they like, then?"

"Depends oan her mood."

"Depends on what?" Daskin growled in frustration. "Why can't you give me a straight answer, Dànaidh?"

"'Tis nae lik' fixin' a puzzle, lad," Dànaidh said, pointing to the glow of a campfire. He followed behind Daskin's march. "Sure'n you git parts that fit t'gether right, bit ye cannae gan throwing t'ings around 'n' stickin' thaim in wher'ver—"

"Silver!" Juniper jumped up from his seat by the fire, causing Fjord to nearly drop the remnants of his fish. "I was worried—it was getting dark."

"I'm fine," Daskin said grudgingly, stomping over to sit by Juniper's footpaws. "I was asking Danny why it's wrong to look at girls, and he started telling me all of these crazy things…"

"Crazy things?" Juniper looked at Dànaidh. "What sort of crazy things?"

_"Saoileam mi chan eil aithris bobag iomgnè!"_ Dànaidh babbled, his paws covering his eyes.

"Yeep!" Juniper cried, going over to Dànaidh's side. He leaned in close and whispered, "In common tongue, Danny. For the audience's sake." He nodded and winked.

Dànaidh sighed. "I was trying tae tell Daskin 'bout jimmies 'n' gals, 'n' how they…" He smirked and clapped his paws together. "Fit."

"The talk, eh?" Fjord said, climbing to his footpaws. "You're rather lucky I'm here, sah. Jolly well educated in the school of chaps, chappesses and mating." He snapped a paw. "You need a demonstration, wot."

"Ah, we can act it out!" Juniper said, grinning from ear to ear. "Wonderful!"

Fjord knelt in front of Daskin. "Now Silver, the chappess is like a fire: all hot and bothering you to stoke her up, eh? So, like a good chap, you stick a log in. But gently! Need to find the proper position to get her burning _just right_, mm?" He hopped to his footpaws. "Pay attention, Silver. I'm the male."

"But you're shorter," Juniper protested. Hector, who sat a few yards away, began chuckling.

Fjord stared at Juniper. "I'm the male."

"But you're a dancer."

Fjord winced. "I'm...the male?"

Juniper smiled and wagged a digit at Fjord. "But you're a 'bunny'." This brought a thunderous explosion of laughter from Hector.

Fjord sighed and pinched the bridge of his snout.

Hector managed to bite back his laughter long enough to throw out, "June, it's like in _The Plague at the Solari Oasis_! You're the innocent stoatess searching for love, and Fjord is the beau you've set your eye on."

"Hooray!" Juniper cried. He twirled around the fire, prancing and cooing and batting his eyelashes.

"Corinth save us all," Dànaidh said with a groan. He sank down onto the dirt next to Daskin, who laughed as Juniper began chasing Fjord around the fire, paws outstretched, kissing at the air. "Listen, Dask. Here's what ye dae: keep an eye oan Hector 'n' th' missus. When they kip doon fer th' night, sneak ower 'n' gander't whit they're daein'. That'll learn ye shiny." Dànaidh winked and clapped Daskin on the shoulder. "Good lad!"


	41. The Game of Kings

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 40. The Game of Kings  
**

_by Daskin_

"My own fine words notwithstanding, life is no play. We meet people once, and never see them again. There is no shape to events, no point at which we turn to the audience for their praise. No time at which we step behind the stage, to see the actors changing their wigs, and painting their faces, and muttering their lines." –from _Sandman_, Neil Gaiman

###

"We've wasted most of the day already; they'll be after us soon." Hector shook his head, orange fur bronzed and fiery under the last of the evening light. "If we go by night, we'll be more difficult to track."

"An _actress_ oughtn't put up with being shuffled about like a refugee!" Alastia snarled.

"An actress does as she's told, for the good of the troupe," Thera put in, and the wildcat flopped into the cart with a huff.

"I dinnae ken why she'd be rattling her lips, she ain't lugging this cart along."

Despite reluctance, Daskin climbed in next to the wildcat—he'd noticed that the others' handling of the would-be starlet had chilled considerably over the past day or so, since the river. For his own part, Daskin found her pitiful, a pale and puffed-up imitation of a noblebeast, gilt with ostentiatious selfishness but brass underneath. There were nobles like that, true, but even they occasionally betrayed some sort of emotional depth beyond a flutter and a sneer. Well… actress.

Daskin rode awhile in silence, blocking out the murmured conversation of the troupe, letting it flow like a stream around him. How many days had it been? A few to travel from the inn to Redwall, then barely one since their flight. And yet… yet Daskin found himself uncomfortably caught between a desire for home and a desire to stay here with the troupe, with Juniper and Hector and the rest. Despite his contempt for Alastia's ridiculous airs, Daskin did have to ask himself how much a proper noble _he_ was, collapsing in Hector's arms that afternoon, or learning to box from a hedgehog who cursed like a soldier.

_A noble might learn the sword, surely, but not fistfighting—_

That he even recognized the absurdity of this thought sapped his willingness to return home… dead was dead, whether by knifing or clean swordstroke or even the nasty mess of slaying somebeast with bare paws.

So. Not much of a proper noble then, still less so as he fully intended to follow Danaidh's advice, spying on Hector and Thera. Daskin didn't quite know _why_, but he knew enough of courtesy that following the foxes as they bedded down would fall into the category of Things That Are Not Done. That was clear enough.

All around, night slowly cloaked the troupe in shadow as they fled, and the chirping of crickets added itself to the hushed mumblings of Daskin's companions, indistinct around him; Juniper was humming, a lilting and dissonant melody that Daskin couldn't quite place. The moon and stars served as enough light to travel by, and it seemed that Hector would press on well into the night. They would hope to disappear into the wilderness before their pursuers managed to find their trail.

Daskin drew his cloak more tightly around him, to keep out the cool night air, and let himself drift, slowly, to an uneasy sleep—

_SNAP!_

"Wha—"

"Hector, what—"

The ground lurched beneath them, and the cart pitched backward—Daskin recognized Juniper's dismayed yelp, Thera's screech…

"Oh, my bally arm, help—"

Something soft hit him in the chest, and Daskin was suddenly falling; he braced himself for impact, expecting to land on soft grass. Instead, he twisted in the air, and continued to fall… who screamed? Was it him?

The last thought was how bright the moonlight seemed, as the earth all around him swallowed the last of the light, and he fell through sour, stagnant air into darkness.

###

_"Daskin. Daskin!"_

He awoke, and found himself staring at a ripple of white linen overhead, its soft curves illuminated by warm sunlight. Daskin sat up, sinking into the bed a little bit. He yawned.

"What time is it?"

"Quarter past seven, and Lord Stirling is expecting you downstairs for breakfast by quarter 'til eight. Regent Felspoon arrived around six, so it's the formal dining room." The chubby lady ferret bustled around Daskin's room, opening curtains and laying out an outfit for him.

Daskin groaned.

"I know, but he does insist. And before you ask, yes, you must wear the cravat." She threw an affectionate arm around Daskin's shoulders, giving him a brief hug.

"Thank you, Mama Kenzie," he said, nuzzling her back.

He dressed quickly, and hopped down the stairs to the main level of Stirling Manor, the lace at his throat shivering as he moved. His mother waited for him at the bottom of the staircase.

"You look wonderful, darling, but that's not quite straight." Daskin's mother was tall and graceful, her dark mask perfectly shaped over smooth café-au-lait fur. She fussed with his cravat for a few moments, mostly managing to wrinkle it. "Well. Somewhat better. Come along, we oughtn't keep Regent Felspoon waiting. You know how Lord Stirling gets about punctuality."

"Deranged?"

She gasped, a high-pitched and thoroughly disingenuous sound. "Hmph!"

"Sorry, mother."

"I wouldn't precisely call him well-balanced on that particular topic. But mind your manners."

They wandered through corridors, the few servants they encountered bowing slightly and otherwise giving them a wide berth.

"Incidentally, I have been meaning to tell you. You're going to be going on a bit of a journey shortly, as we've been hearing of some danger… I don't know how long you'll be staying, but Kenzie will be going with you…"

###

"Daskin. Daskin!"

He awoke, and there was nothing overhead but a suffocating blackness, a dreary and stifling collection of shadows and bitter, echoing wind. Daskin reached out a paw, and felt the cart wheel next to him—he'd barely missed being crushed under the cart, then, and been knocked senseless for 'gates alone knew how long.

Daskin heard Juniper's voice call out once again.

"Daskin, where are you?"

"Here, I'm here, I'm awake!" His throat burned as he spoke, as though he'd inhaled a pawful of smoke and razor-blades. All at once, he felt the air around him shift, silently. Something rustled, and breathed.


	42. It's An Ill Wind

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 41. It's An Ill Wind  
**

_by Aya_

The last few minutes could have gone worse, Aya decided. The gag that actor-fox had stuffed into her mouth could have tasted of something absolutely foul, if the smell of the hedgehog was anything to go ropes around her torso could have been tightened to the point of cutting off circulation. This "Hector" apparently knew his stuff well enough to effectually prevent her escape without actively causing her harm -unless you counted the recipe for violet-water cupcakes that was distractedly simmering in the back of her mind, induced by the scent of the kerchief-gag. Yes, things could be worse -but not much.

As Aya shivered and contemplated dislocating various joints in an attempt to escape the encircling grasp of the rope -her own former lifeline, if you please, and add a half-cup more flour to offset the addition of the violet-water- she realized that her two companions were no longer similarly encumbered. In fact, Cecil was standing up from amidst the shreds of his restraints, a blade gleaming in his paw, while Shelton seemed to have slipped his bonds without even needing to struggle.

_It figures. The otter can't even drown properly, of course he couldn't tie Shelton securely. _

Cecil ran over and gently removed Aya's gag before commencing cutting away at her fetters.

"How'd you get free? Where'd you get that dagger?" Aya demanded as soon as her mouth had moistened sufficiently to speak again.

"It's a knife," Cecil replied, "and apparently, Miss Aya, you understimate my skill at thievery."

"It's a blinking cutting implement!" she snapped. "How'd you get it?"

"It doesn't have a hilt so it's not a dagger," Cecil explained in patient tones, "it's a throwing knife."

From his position behind Cecil, Shelton helpfully raised his paws in silhouette against the squirrel's head. Inspiration came quickly to Aya.

"The rabbit gave it to you, didn't he?"

Cecil sighed.

"Fine. Yes, the 'rabbit' gave it to me."

Shelton grinned in the background. Aya shot him a wry glance as Cecil finally broke through the last of the restraining cords, allowing her to painfully rub at her now-free arms as she scrambled upright.

"Blasted actors," she muttered. The squirrel picked up the discarded kerchief, tied it around a rock and reclaimed her sling from the pile of fetters.

_At least he had enough sense to cut the other bits and leave my sling alone._

A whistling noise terminated by a splash announced the erstwhile gag henceforth resided with the lake's aquatic denizens. Aya shivered, her still-wet fur standing on end in the chill of the breeze blowing off the lake. Cecil's rather baggy pants were still dripping out his ankles, and even Shelton looked a bit bedraggled.

_If I didn't know they did such a shoddy job with that wagon-thing... but it's so cold. We have to have a fire._

"Shelton, grab some small, dry twigs from the underbrush," Aya ordered as she grabbed a stout piece of driftwood and started digging a wind-break into the sand. "Cecil, get some birch paper, and use that _knife_ of yours on this to light it." She tossed him a small block of flint from her pack, then stamped her footpaws to warm them before joining Shelton in gathering dry kindling. Shelton seemed to know what he was doing, so she gratefully left off supervising him and set about scrounging for anything that could be improvised into something hot and nourishing.

Aya returned to Cecil and found that he and Shelton had managed to get a nice little fire crackling away with two stout sticks on either side and a cross-stick at the ready. A pot had washed to shore from the wreckage of the cart; Aya rinsed it, filled it halfway, then hung it over the fire. As it started to warm, she added her gleanings: some wild mushrooms, a dozen stalks of watercress, a pawful of the acorn meal from her sack, and a couple of woodpigeon eggs in deference to Shelton, although she couldn't help but wince as she cracked them into the broth to poach. Time seemed to pass slowly as they sat by the fire, warming and drying off, and eventually tucked into the cooled soup. What wasn't eaten was poured onto the fire to extinguish it.

"Well then, if you're all quite done, shall we be off?" Shelton inquired tentatively as they pushed sand over the fire's remnants and stamped out any lingering embers. "They left a trail clear enough to walk while blindfolded."

"Who said anything about walking?" Aya replied, a grim smile flitting across her features.

"Yes, running will warm us up... quickly," Cecil agreed with a sigh.

The waning but still warming rays of the sun soon dispensed what chill lingered from their dip in the lake. The smell of crushed yarrow rose from the trail cut by the wheels of the troupe's conveyance. The underbrush between the wheel tracks lay trampled by footpaws, the damage too recent to allow for the plants to stand back upright. It was a good sight, a sign that they were only a couple of hours behind the fleeing troupe. Aya allowed herself to relax the pace, settling into a brisk walk that allowed her to better take in the sights and smells of the forest.

Early spring was a good time to be out in the woods, and the squirrel had spent many a morning tramping around searching for inspiration and free ingredients for her baked goods. Even though her pace was hurried her eyes habitually scanned the underbrush. A clump of mushrooms in the shadow of an oak -they could be sauteed down with dried thyme and made into pasties. A whiff of mint from a damp hollow -steep the leaves for a healing tea, or use fresh or dry in any number of her comestible concoctions. And then, Aya spied her favorites. Dashing ahead, she hurriedly stooped and picked frantically at a patch of ripe early strawberries, filling her cheeks and cradling as many as she could in a paw held against her chest. A quick glance showed that Shelton and Cecil were already ahead, so with a last, longing glance Aya pushed off the ground and scrambled to catch up, trying not to think of the tarts and flans and pies she was leaving behind.

Her cheeks were full of berries she was savoring one at a time, sweetening her mood enough that she offered a few berries to her companions. Shelton took them with a nod of thanks, but seemed nonplussed by their juicy flavour. In contrast, Aya was oddly gratified to see that Cecil seemed to enjoy them nearly as much as she did, if his closed eyes and rapturous expression while chewing were anything to go by.

"My thanks, Miss Aya!" he said as soon as he'd swallowed. "Such wonderful flavour! A truly sweet gesture, to match the nature of giver, err..." Cecil's voice trailed off as he saw Aya roll her eyes and pop the last few berries into her mouth. A few minutes and Aya felt a burst of energy.

"Right," she said, twitching her tail impatiently, "I don't know about you two but we're too close to catching up to them not to hurry. Are you ready to run again?"

"Not to be a stick-in-the-mud," Shelton began, "but I have been wondering something. What exactly are we going to _do_ once we catch up to them? They're nearly thrice our number."

"Yes, but half of them are useless," Aya replied. "The females will go faint against a tree, and the otter can't even tie a decent knot -do you really think he'll be any good in a fight? The ferret can barely reach my muzzle with outstretched arms. As for the rest..." She stopped and stood, tail twitching, pondering how best to explain what she had in mind.

"I don't think Fjord will resist," Cecil said slowly. "He's more liable to turn tail and run."

"Well, that's bloody inconvenient, but it will make dealing with the rest a bit easier," Aya said. "The hedgepig and the fox are the only real opponents; the martens won't know what to do if we can take out the fox first. Then we just have to chase down the blasted bunny."

"He happens to be a hare," Cecil said, stung into defending his former co-entertainer.

"Whatever he is," Aya replied, "he's still a suspect, and Skipper'll pay dearly for the chance to find out what happened to the Abbess."

"It wasn't him," Cecil protested. "Not Fjord. It just couldn't be. I know him."

Aya shrugged. "It doesn't matter to me if he did it or not; the point is, he ran, so it's my job to bring him back. They can argue about who did it and who didn't do it to their hearts' content, _when we bring them back_."

"But he can't go back, not yet!" Cecil shouted. "His wife may be in danger, he needs to protect her!"

"I don't _care_," Aya snapped back, "I just need to get him back to Redwall along with the rest!"

"Maybe we shouldn't be discussing this quite so loudly," Shelton interrupted, stepping between the two squirrels who had stopped and were glaring at each other. "It won't help anything if they hear us."

As if in answer to his words, a rumbling echoed from not too far up ahead, followed by screams and shouts faintly carrying on the evening breeze. The three stood, blinking for a moment, then turned and ran together along the tracks. A few more miles and the path suddenly ended in an upheaval of turf and trees, with a few rocks thrown in for good measure. Dust coated the area, flung up from the depths of the hole which had opened beneath the footpaws of the troupe, if the sudden cessation of the tracks were any indication.

"What in bloody blazes..."

Aya swallowed the rest of her words in a shriek as she dove to the forest floor, Cecil landing nearly on top of her, as a screaming whistle shot up right where her face had been moments before.


	43. You and Whose Army?

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 42. You and Whose Army?  
**

_by Shandi_

Shandi looked up, pleased to have something, _anything_ distract her from Vikraja's tirade about stripes. "Argh, what's he talking about now? Did somebeast sneeze at him?"

"Run!" Rod hissed.

Run? Well, sod that. She'd take the fashion talk instead, thanks.

Cones, Rod, and Dominic—with Ella in tow—went screaming past them. Oakey helped Vikraja seize hold of her cart; the wheels sprang to life as they heaved it bodily behind them. Shandi stood for one agonized moment, watching as a buzzing crowd began to migrate in their direction.

"I hate ye so much, Dominic."

The squirrel turned tail and hiked it after the fleeing sextet. She put on a bit of speed and caught up with Vikraja's cart, but her legs refused to move any faster, despite her brain's curse-laden urges. And then, the cart was pulling away. The squirrel was tempted to make a desperate grab at the back of it and just be towed along, but it was too late for that.

"Wait...Damn it...Slow down!" she huffed.

"Move yourzelf, zquirrel! We can't wait around for you!" Vikraja cried callously.

That was the last time she listened to one of the lizard merchant's boring pitches, if that was how she repaid her. Shandi's muscles screamed for oxygen that just couldn't come fast enough. Curse everything! Especially the sadistic beast that invented running!

She couldn't help but panic a bit. Would they really leave her behind? It wouldn't be the first time. Horrible memories of her Dibbunhood climbing lessons surfaced; she was the last to make it to the top of the tall pine, and the others had already climbed down and begun their trip back home to Moston. She had taken so long they had just...forgotten she had even been there. She remembered clutching tightly to the thin upper branches, squeaking, too frightened to move. The ground had been so very far away, and she was all alone, a tiny thing clinging to a cold, indifferent giant...

Something seized the squirrel by the back of her tunic and hauled her back.

"Where d'you think you're going? You're worth a lot of gold!"

Shandi spun round and flailed about, one of her fists smacking...Dominic? But that didn't make any sense. How had he gotten there so fast, and why did he just willingly grab a garment whose full written wash history he did not know?

Not-quite-Dominic reeled backward, snarling. He brought his own fist up, and then, _pain_. Stars flooded Shandi's vision and she fell flat on her tail, shaking her head hard.

"Let 'er go!"

Oakey bounded toward them, Rod and Cones flanking her on one side and Vikraja on the other, wielding her stolen sword. Even Dominic had returned with Ella, though they hovered about near Vikraja's cart. Meanwhile, three rather large beasts appeared at the other weasel's side, cracking their knuckles threateningly. Shandi made to scramble away but the weasel kicked her in the back, knocking her back down.

"I see you've joined up with the murderers," Not Dominic snarled at Vikraja. "Maybe they'll even give me a reward for you as well!"

The monitor scowled and tightened her grip on the sword.

"Darron, I didn't do..." Dominic began, but his voice cracked and he trailed off.

"Well, look, if it isn't my little wife-stealing and abbess-murdering brother, hiding behind everybeast else with his little bastard kit."

"Don't call her that!" Dominic's free paw balled into a fist as the other clutched Ella tighter to himself. "Just...just go home!"

"Not without your hide, Dumby-Dumbinic," Darron mocked.

"Darron, let me go!" Dominic pleaded. "If Faye finds out you turned me in, she'll leave you for good!"

"Never mind Faye. She's where she oughtta be," Darron snarled.

Vikraja gave an angry hiss and took a step forward, swinging the sword somewhat inexpertly; Darron still got the message, however. The weasel stepped toward Vikraja, a dagger finding its way into his paw. As soon as he stepped past Shandi, the squirrel acted quickly. Lurching forward, she seized the weasel's legs and tugged as hard as she could. Darron toppled over with a bellow, and Shandi crawled on top of him as he tried to roll over, pinning him to the ground. In a trice one of her axe blades was pressed to his throat.

"Don't hurt him!" Dominic yelled.

"Get off me, you fat bitch!" the weasel gurgled around the blade, trying in vain to move his knife paw, but it was completely trapped by Shandi's legs.

"Shut up!" Shandi pressed down a bit harder. The squirrel was still breathing hard, but adrenaline coursed through her veins. "And ye three, stay back!" she added to Darron's cronies. Vikraja had also edged closer to Shandi and Darron, her tongue flicking in and out rapidly as she held her sword at the ready.

She had no desire to kill the weasel; after all, if she had killed every beast that had called her fat, the world would be a fairly empty place by now. And as annoying as Dominic was, she wasn't about to off his brother. He had hit her though, twice, so it was definitely fun to watch him squirm.

As she glared into the weasel's angry eyes, she thought she saw a glimmer of something like guilt flash across them, as though he were silently begging her to kill him. But it was gone an instant later, and Shandi was sure she had just imagined it.

"Aye, you'd best do as she says."

Tristram had appeared, a knife pressed to the neck of one of Darron's beasts, a ferret. The other two, a rat and a stoat, were held in similar positions by Nanain and that badger she'd seen at the Goodlibeast Inn.

"Now, I suggest y' just go back home and forget y' ever saw anything here, or we _will_ make y' regret it, trust me," Tristram said calmly, a stark contrast to the manner in which he held his knife. "Agreed?"

The ferret nodded. Shandi nudged Darron. The weasel growled, but also inclined his head. Shandi rolled off him and hoisted herself upright with a grunt, allowing Darron to get to his footpaws. Tristram and the other Sentinels released their captives, and the four defeated creatures lumbered back up the road.

"This isn't over," Darron growled over his shoulder.

Soon, the sound of their pawsteps faded away.

"I told you to keep up, zquirrel," said Vikraja.

"Aye, and I told ye to slow down," Shandi sneered. "What's yer point, ye stripe-peddling, overgrown excuse fer a..."

"Good timing there, Tristram old chap," Oakey said, cutting the rest of Shandi's sentence short. "An' ye too, Nanners an' Horace!"

Nanain's eyes narrowed to slits. "I told you not to call me that. Ever."

"Right. Sorry, Nanner...nain. Nannernain. Nanain, that is. Ha ha..." Oakey coughed nervously, withering under the squirrel's glare.

"I suggest we get back to Rillrock, in case that weasel is stupid enough to actually try anything," Horace the badger rumbled.

"He is," said Dominic sadly.

Tristram sheathed his dagger. "Right. Move out, troops!"

Shandi sighed. "Could we...could we maybe not run this time?"


	44. Under Heaven Destruction

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 43. Under Heaven Destruction  
**

_by Vikraja_

Despite it all, Vikraja's eyes kept creeping back to the sword. It really, _really_ needed a sheath.

This would have been a simple fix had the thing been crafted right at all. Vikraja was not a swordsbeast, but at least she knew what a proper one should look like. She had several sheaths and scabbards, wrapped and overlaid with vivid silks, but the thing that sliced deep into her soul was that she could even see one that would have fit perfectly, had the sword in her possession not been a huge, ungainly chunk of steel.

It was a curious feeling not having to lug the full brunt of her cart, although the monitor probably could have come up with many beasts who would have been better company than Oakey. The otter was a relentless sandstorm of questions: What's your name? Where are you from? How far is that again? Are there any otters there? Why not? There really otter be!

Vikraja pulled at her scalp; not all life was horrid, but it was the difference of the width of a moth's wing.

She glanced back from time to time; why did Cones have to be all the way in the back? He would have been more help with carrying the cart. As it was, she was stuck in the middle, her things protected as a turtle inside its shell-armor. They were making decent ground and Rillrock shouldn't have been much further at this rate, but they _had_ slowed down. She pouted at Shandi, near the back of the makeshift clan; _lazy zquirrel._ A bit of running would do her well.

Noticing her constant twitching, Oakey gave the monitor a slap on the back. "Don't worry, Vikkers! Or should I call you Rajy? Anyway, we're in the clear. Some, uh, friends of ours have traps set up just in case of something like this." She pointed ahead. "One of those elms is close t'fallin'. If those boneheads are still chasin' us, they'll be in for a tree-t!" The otter sniggered like mad, and it was only a soothing breeze of relief that saved her from a good clouting from her reptilian companion.

Vikraja's eyes shifted toward Dominic, a little ways in front, with little Ella riding on his shoulders. The weasel kit turned to the monitor and waved a stubby paw, sticking her tongue out. She offered a small grin in return; as long as the thing wasn't digging around in her cart, everything was vanilla fluff. She still wanted a chance to talk with Dominic, but he'd already said what she had needed to hear; he was no murderer.

Besides, it was unlikely she was going to get much of a conversation out of him, anyway. The weasel was huffing and puffing, tongue lolling, with a paw clutched to his chest. _Poor Dizeazel._ Once they were safely in Rillrock she could pawn him some herbal tea; he _did_ owe her, especially for wasting perfectly good Etrurian cotton.

It wasn't long before Vikraja picked up the scent of a running stream. There was just enough sunlight filtering through the trees to dapple her scales, and a gentle breeze offered loving little nuzzles at all the right times. She flicked her tongue again, but something seemed odd. A bedraggled, musky scent, like wet fur, but it was difficult to hear over that obnoxious creaking groan.

"Watch out!"

Vikraja's eyes flickered up just in time to see a full-grown tree come crashing down in front of her. She hissed out a surprised breath and instinctively attempted to shield her cart with her body before something furry bowled her over, sending her sprawling.

"Aiiieee, the trees! The trees are falling! The forest is trying to kill us! Doom!"

It sounded like Dominic's voice, but it was hard to tell, what with the world spinning and all. Vikraja closed her eyes and lay still for a moment, wheezing. All around she could hear little cracks as the ex-tree, but it was overwhelmed by exclamations and curses from the group of beasts. Vikraja lifted her head up, craning her neck to see the extent of the damage, and her breath made itself at home in her chest again; her cart was safe! Oakey was steadying it now, and the monitor felt a grudging respect for the otter burble inside.

Vikraja picked herself up, claws trembling. It looked as if everybeast was okay, although she couldn't pick out Dominic amongst them.

"Uh… was that _supposed_ to happen?" Shandi asked.

Oakey narrowed her eyes, and Vikraja was surprised to see the otter so angry. "Wrong tree," she said, her voice frigid.

At that moment, a squat creature lumbered out of the surrounding greenery. Vikraja snapped her jaws shut; the smell was excruciating up close. The beast looked the felled tree up and down with a critical eye, nodding periodically and muttering to himself. The monitor blinked; he was awfully calm despite having had his tail crushed flat.

"Not s'as big as I'd like," he said, his voice whistling out through overlarge incisors. "But it'll do."

Rage fueled Vikraja's muscles. She stomped forward. "What iz your _problem?_ You almozt crushed my cart!"

"Eh?" The creature shrugged. "Your cart was in front of my tree, I reckon. S'aint' my fault if you get in the way o' me work."

"What if my axe gets in the way of yer face, stupid git?" Shandi growled, storming up beside Vikraja.

"You… you nearly smushed my daughter to bits!" Dominic sprang from the back of Vikraja's cart.

The monitor put a claw to her forehead. _Why. Why ever._

"I'll _gnaw_ you!"

"Now, wait just a second." With a nimble hop, Tristram intercepted the weasel. "We don't have time to spare. You folks get to work on haulin' that cart over the tree." The squirrel cocked an eyewhisker at the flat-tailed beast. "Howzabout you and I have a talk over there, eh?"

The creature was about to protest, when Tristram looped a paw around his shoulder and steered him off. Vikraja hoped that by "talk" he really meant "kill." Judging by Shandi's face, it seemed she was hoping the same thing.

Dominic flicked the air with a paw. "Tchk. That's what happens when you chop down trees. Your tail gets smushed."

From a short distance away came a series of short sneezes. "My, my nose has leafs in it."

Dominic trilled in his throat, flailing his paws. He dashed off toward his kit.

Cones strode over. "Let'z get that cart moved, then, eh?" Vikraja nodded as Horace the badger approached. Now _this_ would be more like it.

Vikraja had never seen a badger before she'd joined up with these beasts. Not only was the great striped creature one of the few furred beasts who was taller and wider than she was, but also he was a _lot_ taller and wider than she was. With Oakey guiding them, it seemed like ferrying the cart would be an easy job. Vikraja felt little grains of guilt beneath her scales—although they could have been splinters. The brute had offered to help with her cart earlier, and she'd declined, worried that he'd break something.

"Nearly there," he rumbled.

Vikraja flicked her tongue out and froze. _Wha-_

The cudgel slammed straight into the base of Horace's skull, and the badger dropped. Cones hissed in alarm. Oakey dropped into a fighting stance as Darron leaped over the fallen tree with a snarl, several other beasts at his heels.

The scene dissolved into chaos in two tongue-flicks. Vikraja nearly couldn't believe it; the weasel had managed to acquire even more cronies then he'd had before.

She managed to hear Darron's voice above the yowling mess: "Whoever finds my bastard brother and brings him to me gets a share of the reward!"

Snarling, Vikraja tried to make her way toward the weasel when a fox roared in toward her, swinging a cutlass. The monitor dove out of the way and before the fox could turn to try again, she tripped him neatly with her tail.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Shandi slicing away with her paw-axes. For a chubby little mammal, she was certainly not to be underestimated, as an overconfident rat found out after getting his skull split into neat little watermelon slices.

But all that dissolved into a fine mist. Craning her neck around, she trilled; she had to get to her cart. Somewhere deep beneath her scales, a churning desire for the sword bubbled up and threatened to erupt. Radiant fury drove her through the mob, and she lashed out blindly at anybeast in her way.

And then something rammed into her from the side. Vikraja's breath escaped momentarily. Through the now-blurred trees, she saw Darron swing down with his cudgel. The monitor rolled and, wriggling like an adder, launched herself at the weasel.

They tumbled, snarling and spitting. There was a brilliant burst of pain, and Vikraja growled, clutching at her eye, which swam with a mixture of blood and tears. Darron swung back and bashed again, and Vikraja doubled over with a rasping whine.

"Just beg a little, darling," the weasel sneered, "and I won't kill you." Darron leaned in too close. Vikraja kicked up with both footclaws, savagely tearing into soft bellyfur. She flipped onto all fours, but the weasel had collapsed, curled into a moaning ball.

He chuckled, a wet, scraping sound, but Vikraja couldn't make sense of his mumblings. The weasel's eyes misted over and his chin dropped into the dirt.

The monitor looked up. Half of the forest was a bloody mess, although whether that was to be blamed on her eye or not was up for debate. Oakey, Tristram, Shandi and Cones had rounded up the survivors of the attack, and the lizard's cart was still standing. And so was she.

Clapping a claw to her face, she stumbled toward the cart, tail dragging behind her. Dom zheeped curiously, his head poking out of her cart. "I've got your sword. Do you still need it?" he said. And then, "…are you okay? Hellgates. You're not." He glanced around, grimacing, and then focused his eyes on something inside the cart.

Vikraja waved her free claws, numb.

"What about Darron? Is he okay?"

The monitor couldn't stop seeing him die. "Not quite."

She collapsed.


	45. When It's All Crashing Down

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 44. When It's All Crashing Down  
**

_by Juniper_

"Daskin, thank goodness you're all right." Juniper enveloped the kit in a strong embrace, then took to fussing over his well-being: checking to see if all his limbs were intact, if his tail was straight, and finally to straighten his clothing and fur. He licked the kit's head and gagged at the dust that desiccated his mouth. Daskin shoved him away.

"I'm fine," he said, and coughed.

Juniper frowned. The ground had swallowed them up like the closing curtain to the first act; they had woken up in complete darkness, bruised and sore and blinded. They had no idea where they were or how they were going to get out of this frightening predicament, and Daskin was fine? Juniper himself was practically losing his mind over the unfamiliarity of the situation, and the ferret kit claimed to be fine. Juniper helped him to his footpaws, figuring that he had simply adopted an air of stoicism to help get him through the situation, and then settled to admire the kit's resolve.

"Is everybeast all right?" Hector called from the darkness.

"I found Daskin!" Juniper said, proud; then winced as he remembered to call him Silver.

"Thank the fates." Hector breathed a sigh of relief. "Everybeast else? Thera?"

"I'm here, yes."

"Gergreg?"

"Aye," the two spoke in unison.

"Alastia?"

"No," came the wildcat's curt response.

"Fjord?"

"I seem to still be kicking, wot."

"Dànaidh?"

"It'll take more'n a wee bonnie drop t'get th' best o' Dànaidh a'Sginnearach!"

"Well, we're all alive, at least."

"Speak for yourself," Alastia whined.

"I say, we have a dead cat on our paws?" Fjord called out.

"What?" Juniper asked. His mind was too discombobulated to put things in order. Surely if Alastia was dead she shouldn't be speaking. "What's wrong with Alastia?"

"Aye, me fine lass. If'n yer dead, why won't ye give us th' courtesy o' keepin' yer trap shut?"

Alastia hissed. "The fall broke my tail."

"A broken tail, is that it?" Dànaidh sounded incredulous.

"Well, I might as _well_ be dead!" Alastia shouted, then she dissolved into whimpers and cries.

Daskin coughed, which prompted Juniper to rub his back. A feeling of safety and security settled over the otter, which he found quite odd. It wasn't himself who was being comforted, yet performing the act had the same affect as receiving it. He mused over this, because it was a word he thought sounded nice.

"Does anybeast have a light?"

The sound of rummaging through pouches joined Alastia's sniveling, which had grown into something that resembled actual yowling. It was putting Juniper completely on edge; he had listened to her complaints before, but it was never anything like this. He wondered if something was seriously wrong. Juniper tried to ignore it, searching his own pouch for something that might help create a light, but it was Gergreg and Fjord that won the day, producing a piece of flint and a weapon between them. Dànaidh came in a close second, taking his paws to what remained of the cart and gathering the driest wood available in a pile.

"Gergreg, let me have the flint. Fjord, what is it you've got?"

"A knife."

"Good, let me have that, too. Ow! What are you doing, handing that to me blade first!"

"Sorry, old bean, but I wasn't about to hold the blade myself, wot."

"You moron, hold it by the hilt!"

"Ah yes, neglected that little detail, didn't I?"

"Shaddup and give me the dagger."

"It's a throwing knife, h'actually."

"I don't care what it is, just give it to me! Perfect. Thank you. Dàni, where's the woodpile?"

"Right 'ere."

There was the sound of wood scattering, followed by a shriek.

"What is this!"

"I threw th' wood in a pile jus' like ye asked."

"Why didn't you bother to put the nails down?"

"Shoulda done that, aye."

Juniper laughed; Daskin joined him.

"It's not funny!"

Brief flashes of light illuminated the cavern they had found themselves in, until a small flame had settled on the broken planks. Juniper watched as Hector leaned in and blew on the tiny light, allowing it to grow into a proper fire. Movement shimmered on the edge of the set, prompting Juniper to look up, but nothing was there. His hackles rose in an unsettling, instinctual way, and he motioned Daskin closer to the light source, closer to the group.

He could have sworn a pair of red eyes looked at him.

"What do we do now?"

Juniper blinked, and the eyes were gone.

Hector turned to Thera. "We keep moving."

"That's a rotten idea, Hector," Alastia snarled. "We have no idea where we are, and you expect us to keep moving? I've mussed fur and a broken tail. I'm not going anywhere."

"We very well can't climb out of here," Hector snapped back. All eyes went to the hole in the ceiling, where starlight could be seen shining down like fireflies caught in a jar. "There has to be another way out."

"That's ludicrous." The cat had taken an air of sneering now. "What if there isn't a way out? We'll be forced to walk this cavern forever. I'm not going to do it. All we have to do is sit at the bottom here, and scream. Somebeast will be bound to hear us. We're being followed anyway. Once they break their bonds and find where we've fallen they'll send a rope down and we'll be free."

"And then what? They'll march us back to the Abbey and we'll face trial."

"Well, I know for certain that I'm innocent, whatever it is we'll stand trial against." She paused as she allowed a smirk to twist her muzzle. "Who are you trying to protect, Hector?"

"Shut up, Alastia," Thera growled.

"The Abbess was murdered." Hector allowed the words to sink in.

The Abbess had been murdered? Juniper looked around in confusion. Gergreg and Gergreg had their heads in their paws, and the declaration had even managed to hold Alastia's tongue. Thera squeezed the fox's shoulder, and yet Fjord, Dànaidh, and Daskin did not express any surprise. Juniper stepped away from the kit; suddenly he had become a whole new character.

"And if you haven't noticed," the fox continued, "we're vermin. It won't matter who killed the Abbess. We'll all be detained and tried for our vermin ways."

Nevertheless, Alastia managed to scoff. "They can't keep me; I had nothing to do with it."

"Would you like to chance that?"

Alastia didn't answer.

"We need to move." It was not a suggestion.

Juniper watched in candid silence as the troupe began bustling about. Dànaidh's face was painted in regret, Fjord, likewise. Alastia joined Thera by the fire where they held a whispered conversation, the wildcat wincing as she tried to swish her tail. Juniper looked about himself, Daskin had moved from his side and was approaching Hector.

Gergreg and Gergreg were rummaging in the back of the cart. In the dim firelight, Juniper watched as they removed the small wooden box that Vikraja had given him what seemed like so long ago. A shock of excitement hit him. They had kept the fire sticks! They must have been in the cart the whole time, and nobeast thought to get rid of them! The twins opened the box and shook out the contents; all four sticks dropped to the ground.

"Oy, Hector," Gergreg called out.

"How did we get these?"

Hector looked up from the murmured dialogue he was having with the kit, his face scrunching as he tried to see in the dim light. "What are they?"

"Looks like Vikraja's fire sticks."

Hector blinked. "How did we manage to get a hold of those?"

"I bought them!" Juniper called out, running over to the pine martens' side.

Hector gave him an astounded look. "You bought them?"

The otter grinned and nodded.

Hector smiled. Juniper beamed.

"That's great!" the fox said. "Did they get wet?"

Gergreg picked one up gingerly and inspected it. "Seems dry enough to me."

"Magnificent. Keep them with us. We'll probably need them."

Gergreg placed the sticks back in the box, but gave the oil soaked rags they had been packaged with to his brother, who tore them in strips and began wrapping them around planks to use as makeshift torches.

Juniper started to hum.

"Quit that," Gergreg said, poking Juniper in the chest with a plank. "We've finally gotten rid of that incessant humming. The last thing we need is for you to pick it up."

The otter frowned and looked towards the starry night sky. "You think Envie will know where we are?"

Gergreg continued to rummage through the back of the cart while Gergreg made more torches. "Envie's dead, June," one of them said.

Juniper smirked and rolled his eyes. "Seriously. What if he doesn't see the hole in the ground? How will he be able to catch up with us?"

The Gergregs stopped what they were doing and gave Juniper a long and deep look. The one who had been making torches turned his head and whistled. The rest of the troupe looked their way.

"June." Gergreg's brow was so furrowed it looked like a folded curtain. "Envie is dead."

"What?" Juniper gave a nervous laugh. "No, he's not."

Complete silence settled over the troupe, so thick Juniper could swim though it. Every single creature was looking at him in bewilderment—from above, the quiet chirp of crickets could be heard filtering down to the cavernous pit.

"June," Hector said, approaching. The fox's head was cocked, and his face was filled with worry. Traces of fear lined the edges. "Envie died at the river. We pulled his body from the waters."

Juniper scoffed. "Well, yes, I know that." His eyes darted to each creature, all looking at him as though he had suddenly grown a second head. "But, you know, that was hours ago. Surely he would have given it up by now."

"What, what are you saying, June?" Hector's head was in his paws. "Are you saying that Envie's still alive? That it was nothing more than an act?"

"Precisely!" Juniper grinned, glad that they were on the same page. His smile faded as Hector shook his head.

"There's no act, June. Envie's dead. He won't be rejoining us."

The otter was beginning to feel very uncomfortable being in the spotlight. He spared a glance towards the fire, expecting it to be raging, but it was no larger than before. He tried to laugh, but it sounded so false. "What do you mean?"

Hector drew a breath. Despite the fox's disposition, Juniper knew it had to be shuddering with the pace he took it. "Envie's gone."

"No." Juniper shook his head. He was smiling; a stupid, nervous smile that was making him look like an idiot. He wished it would go away, but it was painted on his face like bad makeup. "You can't be serious."

"Yes, June. Envie's dead."

"You killed him," Gergreg said. Hector smacked him.

"You're _lying_. He's _not_ dead. He's just lost."

"Juniper."

"No! He's not!" What were they going on about? They were nuts! Toying with him! Envie wasn't dead. He couldn't be. It was scorching in here. Juniper took a deep breath, and then another one, but that wasn't helping to calm him down. His vision was beginning to blur. Envie couldn't be dead. It was impossible. Beasts didn't just die like that. They just didn't.

"June."

The otter withdrew into himself, his whole body shaking. "Shut up! He's not dead! He's lost. He's just lost."

And they were thinking of leaving him behind. Juniper shook his head. No, he wouldn't allow it. His mind raced. He needed a signal, or something. Something to tell Envie where they were.

He barreled his way past Hector and Gergreg and stumbled over to the fire, where he pulled a burning plank from the flames. Then he retraced his steps, retrieving a fire stick and placing himself at the base of the cave in.

"What are you doing, June?"

It wasn't so much of a question as an implication that the otter didn't really know what he was doing, but Hector was wrong. Juniper knew full well his intentions. He rounded on the fox and pine martens, the fire stick in one paw, and the burning plank in the other. They backed away.

"I'm going to send him a signal. Let him know where we are."

It was perfect. Send the fire stick off to the sky, Envie would see it, and he'd be with them in no time. It would be as though nothing was wrong.

"June, that's lunacy. Don't do it."

"I have to! I'm not going to let you leave him behind!"

They would see. Envie would return. He just had to light the stick. What had Vikraja said? Put fire to the wick here…

"June, no!"

…and then run away. Juniper blanched. If he ran away, how was he supposed to aim it? What was he forgetting?

The wick hissed like an adder as the red sparks climbed higher to the base of the rocket. Juniper was frantic as he looked at what to do. A large stick was jutting out from the bottom. That had to be the handle, but that did not involve running away.

The wick continue to hiss, and the red sparks disappeared inside the canister. Juniper aimed and looked away.

Pain. So much pain. There was no collection of thought as the fire stick shrieked in his paws, and before he knew it he was on the ground screaming. The smell of smoke and sulfur enveloped his senses to the point where he couldn't even breathe. Overhead, a bright green explosion danced on the outskirts of thought. His paws were on fire.

He pressed them against his body, coughing—he still couldn't breathe—and collapsed, curling into what he imagined was a perfect little ball. His eyes searched the cavern, trying to find Hector. The fox stood sideways, and Juniper allowed himself to relax a little, until the pine marten twins overtook his vision and began laying relentlessly on the hapless otter.

It didn't hurt, Juniper realized, as their paws continued to strike his body, searching for any possible opening he would give them. They screamed at him for being such an idiot, how could he be so stupid, and that he was going to get them all killed.

Then Juniper was able to take a breath, and that's when the pain hit him.

It was sudden and unexpected the way their blows stopped, and Juniper peeked from around his scorched paws to see Hector and Dànaidh restraining the pair.

"He's going to kill us all!" one of them screamed.

"Aye, and ye'll be th'first t'go if'n ye don't settle daown."

Juniper flopped on the ground, his limbs like warm rubber as he tried to lift himself. Fjord was at his side, assisting. Juniper coughed, aware of the red splatters that appeared on his clothing and fur, and he brought a paw to his nose, unsure if it was still there or if it had fallen off. He withdrew his paw, never imagining that blood could be so bright and vibrant. He wished he had the other eye to give a second opinion, but it had sealed completely shut. Juniper coughed again; more blood sprayed. His mouth was filled with a warm, bitter liquid, and he noticed his muzzle was very tender at a certain spot. He allowed his tongue to investigate, and was horrified at how far he could push his front tooth forward. The otter shuddered. Despite the pain that ravaged his body, he managed to grasp the canine and pull, presenting the tooth for all who cared to see. A fresh pool of blood spilled to the ground.

A joke. He had to make a joke. If he made a joke it wouldn't be so bad. The pain wouldn't hurt so much, and it wouldn't matter that he had lost half his sight and one of his best teeth.

"Burr—" He had to pause to collect himself. "Burr hurr hurr, thank guidness it weren't no molar."

Then he threw up.


	46. The Serpent Beneath the Flower

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 45. The Serpent Beneath the Flower  
**

_by Dànaidh_

Dànaidh waved a paw in front of his face and coughed. The acrid smoke curled in the flames of the torches and makeshift campfire and whisked away toward black sky they had fallen from. Another tremendously loud demonstration from Juniper the otter had accomplished…nothing. Just as before. Yet another performance for an indifferent audience that had dismissed his act before the curtain rose.

No applause saluted the shooting star that rocketed from their cavern, or congratulated the self-injured Juniper as he collapsed in a burning heap. Dànaidh's heart rose and fell with a sigh; the poor otter would push for a solitary clap until his dying breath.

The martens leapt onto Juniper's prone body and threw an assortment of cheap punches at his curled form, seeking pained flinches from their wild blows. They screamed things about "idiot," "stupid," and "getting them all killed." Typical self-preservation. Dànaidh felt the heat rise on the back of his neck as he pushed past Fjord; Hector took a cue from the 'hog and went towards the opposite marten. Dànaidh pulled tight against his Gergreg, feeling the bubbling cloud rising behind his eyeballs.

"He's going to kill us all!" Gergreg screamed, struggling against Dànaidh's hold.

Dànaidh bit his tongue to keep from bellowing in the marten's ear. "Aye, and ye'll be th'first t'go if'n ye don't settle daown." He felt strong, holding the marten's arms with so little force. He could snap one with barely a flick of his paw—

Hector nodded to Dànaidh, and Dànaidh noticed the fox had released the Gergreg he'd held. Dànaidh sighed and released his grips, smirking when his Gergreg rubbed at the indentations pressed into the soft fur on his arm. He sniffed and frowned. _Why did he want to snap his arm? He'd restrained him, and that was enough. The Gergregs were tired and frightened—hellsteeth, they all were. It didn't mean he needed to rend flesh and kill…and why did he seem to enjoy the thought?_ Dànaidh shook his head and exhaled hard through his nose. He felt a shiver part through his quills, and somewhere in the depths of the cavern, a familiar scent…reminiscent of ale and strawberries…

Fjord attended to Juniper as Daskin disappeared behind Hector. The otter looked broken, pain written across his blood-stained cheeks as he plucked a fallen tooth from his maw. Tears stood out on the edges of his eyes, and Dànaidh felt his throat tighten. _He's just a child…a child at heart. He doesn't deserve this._

"Burr—" Juniper attempted to speak and swallowed with a scowl. Fjord hoisted him slowly to a sitting position. "Burr hurr hurr, thank guidness it weren't no molar."

"For Fates' sake, June," Hector said, with a sigh.

Juniper's eyes grew wide before he vomited onto the cavern floor, bile mixing with blood from his wounded mouth. Dànaidh heard Daskin moan behind Hector's back. The Gergreg standing in front of Dànaidh recoiled in disgust as Juniper's throw-up dripped from his lifted footpaw.

"Lookin' for more, June?" he asked, pushing up his left sleeve. He started forward and jerked back suddenly. Dànaidh twisted his grip on Gergreg's collar and spun him around in a clean arc, ramming his hard paw into the soft flesh of Gergreg's stomach. The marten coughed out his breath in a groan and crumpled under Dànaidh's follow-up pound to the top of his head.

"That's enough!" Hector yelled, walking over to the makeshift campfire. He plucked a burning log from the flames.

"How's that?" Dànaidh roared, standing over the fallen Gergreg, spittle flying with each word. "How's it cop tae git whalloped by somebeast bigger'n ye fer nae reason?"

The other Gergreg growled and charged Dànaidh low. Dànaidh grinned and caught the marten in his armpits, lifted him off his footpaws and slammed him to the rocky ground. As he stumbled to his feet, Dànaidh felled him with a quick cross, spilling a fresh, thin crimson line across the adjacent rock wall.

"Stop!" Hector cried, brandishing the improvised torch as he stepped in-between Dànaidh and the Gergregs. Dànaidh turned at him, his eyes gleaming white slits against the intense torchlight. Hector pointed towards the darkness, where the cavern continued. "Find us some fresh water," he said carefully.

"Why?"

The response shocked Dànaidh. He couldn't believe the words left his lips. He'd thought of saying it, even felt the urge to say it, but restraint kept him from uttering every thought or emotion he felt…until now. _Who did he think he was?_ Dànaidh wasn't a slave. He had scars from chains, but that was before…he'd found freedom and wouldn't fall under the whip of any creature again—that he swore to himself seasons ago. Now this fox actor and his freak show pop up and ask him to _pull the cart, carry these bags, scavenge for food, hold the cart, build a rickshaw, pull the rickshaw, look for water…do all the work…_ Why did he do _everything_ Hector asked him to?

Hector blinked rapidly and leaned in closer, the torchlight throwing ghastly shadows across his face. "Just go get it," he said quickly.

"Yer not mah faither," Dànaidh said with contempt. He walked past Hector, stole a glance at Juniper, and continued walking until he found a clear spot a few yards away from the company. He folded his arms and sat down against the wall, leaning his head back against the wall. His vision blurred; he felt alert, but more than that…he felt agitated, vengeful. An overwhelming sense of [i]hate[/i] rushed through the veins in his arms and he grit his teeth against the accelerating sensation. His quills felt like they would explode from his back.

"What's his problem?" Alastia shot, breaking the tense silence.

Hector shook his head and turned to Fjord. "How is he?"

"He'll live," Fjord said, reaching to pat the otter, then jerking his paw to a halt and letting it fall to his side again. "Just a bit messy."

Juniper had collapsed into oblivion, and Fjord prodded him until he shifted into a somewhat comfortable position. His good eye rolled beneath the closed lid, the other a pocket of discolored, swollen flesh that glistened with sweat.

As Hector bent to inspect the dazed Gergregs, Thera slowly approached the rebellious hedgehog. "Danny?" she called, smiling.

"It's Dànaidh," the hedgehog said, staring off into the shadows. "Mah mither named me Dànaidh. Not 'Danny,' 'Denny,' 'Donny,' 'Den-nud' or 'Day-nay.'" He buried his face in his knees, his shallow exhale barely a whisper. "Hang off us, lass…please?" His knees muffled his voice. "I'm wantin' tae be alone."

"I know," Thera said. She sat across from Dànaidh, her confidence nestled in layers of kindness. "There's something bothering you, Da—Dànaidh." She watched for his eyes, and smiled when his rose from the round horizon of his knees and met her gaze. "I know how you are, Dànaidh…I've known beasts like you: strong, carefree, confident. But you…you care." She followed his eyes as he tried to break contact. "I know you do. You've shown it to the others. I saw you fluff Alastia's pillow while she was eating."

Dànaidh lifted his chin and scoffed. "That weren't anythin'. I noticed she lik'd it soft, 'n' complained 'bout it when it got flat."

"But that _was_ something, Dànaidh," Thera corrected. "Not everyone would do that. Or help Daskin bed down at night."

Dànaidh traced the young ferret with his eyes; he paced with nervous agitation on the edges of the firelight. "Just makin' sure he gets plenny o' kip, but June looks efter him mair than me."

"Or keeping watch while the others sleep?"

Dànaidh smirked. "Auld habits. 'Tain't special."

Thera raised an eyebrow. "Really? All this for nothing?"

The hedgehog rested his chin on his arms. "Well naow…"

Thera laughed softly. "See? You _are_ important, Dànaidh. You are important to the troupe—you are important to _us._ Hector and I appreciate all of your efforts…you know June does, too."

"Bah," Dànaidh scoffed again.

"So what's wrong?" Thera asked.

Dànaidh's gaze softened and his eyes unfocused. "I'm fair worn, lass. I'm worn o' seein' things. Somewhiles I'm worn o' livin'...in this world, I mean. Life's unfair, tae a' body…all'em, ye ken? Nae talkin' 'bout me—I'm talkin' 'bout wee ones, weaker ones that get hurt 'n' set oan by tough types that lik' pushin' wee ones around, laughin' when they cry 'n' wantin' tae see a guid thing get bruised 'n' goosed." He bit his lip. "I cannae staun it. I clocked 'em settin' intae June lik' that, 'n' I knew—I _knew_ then I cuid stop 'em. Shuid stop 'em! Sae I did. I gave 'em whit fer. I gave 'em whit they gave tae June, 'n' I hurt 'em."

Dànaidh dropped his face back into the cover of his knees and remained quiet for several moments. Thera swallowed, almost starting a reply several times but never finding the right words, until Dànaidh raised his head part-way, finishing his thoughts with a soft supplement.

"'n' I liked it."

Thera's lower lip trembled as a combination of pity and concern rushed over her face. "Oh, Dànaidh," she whispered, a hot tear running free down her face. She smiled and sniffed as she raised a paw to his cheek.

Dànaidh's irises shrank.

"Don't worry," Thera said.

_don't touch me DON'T touch me Why do You have to touch me When we could just talk like Normal beasts not Everybeast likes Being touched you Say you Care for me but Then you go and Do this and TOUCH me Crazy beasts touch Others without permission I didn't tell you You could I didn't touch you don't do it Don't Do It **DON'T DO IT**_

"Everything will be okay."

The Edge. The Haze. _The Spectacle._

Time seemed to slow, crawl, and die.

His paw leapt from its dormant spot on his knee to her wrist like a toad's tongue, tugging it free from its spot on his cheek as she gasped. His irises were periods against a milky sea of white, and they trembled as he flexed his forearm. Her wrist twisted and cracked. Thera yelped. Dànaidh grinned and leaned closer. Her wrist continued to turn, and popped loudly. Thera inhaled a cry. Dànaidh's grin grew wider, his eyes never straying from hers. He heard the symphony of resistance from the assorted bones surrounding her paw and pushed a little more, twisted a little harder. His eyes drank the unstoppable fear and horror in hers, and he willed her not to blink. _Keep those eyes open! You need to SEE this._

Her wrist snapped in a thunderous, sickening shatter that ricocheted off the cavern walls, reminiscent of a thousand felled trees colliding with a million fresh stalks of celery and carrots breaking under rushing water. The paw fell limp and dead, hanging like a vacant sock puppet against her arm. She leaned back and screamed, her eyes squinting in a combination of fear, shock and horror she had never felt—and would never feel again.

Amid her peals of sob-laden shrieks, Dànaidh pulled her close and spat each word into her face: _"Don't…you…touch…me!"_

"Blast," Fjord said, leaping to his footpaws in anticipation of Hector's sudden, violent reaction. The fox snarled and foamed, the dagger used to kindle the fire dancing in his paw, thirsty for Dànaidh's blood. Fjord stepped in front of Hector and stopped him. "Steady on, chap."

"You animal!" Hector shouted, attacking from over Fjord's shoulder. "How dare you—after everything we've done! You…you damned—"

_"Heeeeeeeec!"_ Thera wailed, clutching the arm of her broken wrist.

Dànaidh pushed her onto her back and stood quickly, staring at Hector. "She touched me," he said. "She shouldn't've touched me!"

"Go on!" Fjord shouted over his shoulder. "Just…go find some water, Dànaidh. Please."

Dànaidh snorted. Hector continued to seethe and strain against Fjord's hold; Thera wailed and rolled on her back; Juniper had risen trembling to his footpaws; the Gergregs were helping each other to theirs; Daskin crouched in the far corner, paws over his ears, unable to look away from the unfolding horror of reality; Alastia sat in a corner, trying to hide the fact that she was crying. The hedgehog spat onto the ground and turned off towards the darkness.

Fjord turned his attention back to Hector. "Easy, old chap. No use trying to bash in his brains. He'd win in a fight, y'know."

"Maybe not," Hector growled.

"Attend to your lady," Fjord encouraged, nodding towards Thera's prone form. "She needs you." Fjord watched Hector's eyes trail off on the path Dànaidh took. "Don't worry y'self about him. I'll keep an eye on the crazy 'hog, wot."

"I'm going to kill him," Hector said, sheathing the dagger.

"Well, who knows? Maybe you'll find a spot in your heart to forgive the prickly old spineball after all. Just a bit cranky, y'see."

"Ratshit," Hector said, walking over to Thera. He cuddled her shaking form to his chest and whispered his consolations as Fjord sighed and marched after Dànaidh.

The hare walked at a comfortable pace, able to hear the distant pawsteps of the hedgehog as he made his way along the darkened tunnel. At certain spots, the elevation rose and dropped suddenly; Fjord hopped easily across several slippery rocks and carried the torch in his mouth as he slowed his slide down a steep slope. At the base of the slope, Fjord heard running water. He smiled and headed towards it.

He ducked beneath a low overhang and gasped. The tunnel emptied into a vast cavern filled with a large, clear lake that flowed off in the opposite direction. The large body of water was being fed from a moderately-sized waterfall on the western side of the cavern. Stalactites reached down from the cavern ceiling like hungry fingers, while large stalagmites rose from the depths of the water like tiny mountains. Fjord's torch light reflected off the shiny crystalline deposits on the rocks and the glistening surface of the wet rocks near the water. He nodded to himself and whistled in awe.

"Nae bad, is it?"

Fjord turned and saw Dànaidh kneeling by the edge of the water, cupping pawfuls of water and splashing his face, neck and spines. The hedgehog's voice echoed in the vast chamber. Fjord headed over to him carefully.

"Jolly impressive is more like it," he said, smiling. "And who'd have known it was under our bally footpaws the whole time?"

Dànaidh nodded and wiped stray droplets free from his cheeks. Fjord cleared his throat and rocked on his footpaws.

"Em, rather odd display you gave us back there, Danny." He looked at Dànaidh and frowned. "Not very sportish to hurt a chappess like that, wot."

"Aye," Dànaidh said, dipping his paw into the water again. He poured it over his head and shook off the excess.

Fjord stared at him for several moments. "Well?"

"What?" Dànaidh asked.

"Fates, you don't go around bashing girls and expect everything to be okay! Do you, Danny?" Fjord threw his paws up. "I mean, what did she do? You broke her wrist, sah. There should be a reason for that."

"Well—"

"And don't give me any of that 'putting-her-in-her-place' nonsense either, because I don't believe in it, sah! And I'd give you a right box about the ears…if it were true."

Dànaidh smiled. "I'm glad tae hear ye wid. I could likely use a guid beatin'." He sighed. "But 'tis nae her fault. Mah shame lies wi' anither."

Fjord raised an eyebrow. "Shame?"

Dànaidh rose to his footpaws and shook them free of water. How could he tell Fjord the truth—how could he tell anybeast? Would anybeast understand? That would be his challenge and his price: to make them understand, or earn their scorn. He swallowed the bitter taste of his pride and allowed his eyes to turn inward, and gaze back upon yesterseason and the distant memories of the forgotten…

"Her name was Bláitheann…Bláitheann Rach. I met her at a dance. She danced lik' a leafy river. We rolled in th' hay under a stowed-out moon 'n' laughed 'til th' stars set. Her faither forbid me frae seein' her, bit we snuck awa' t'gither 'n' ferried doon tae Caomh. She lit a fire in me, 'n' I coudnae pat it out. Her passion 'n' her hunger saw that, 'n' she knew she controlled me. Her sweet flavor was tae be mah poison, 'n' when I realized it, I weren't strong enough tae leave. She hud her fangs in me deep, 'n' I adored her soft fur, her kisses 'n' gentle moans. In a wee bit she grew desperate 'n' frantic, then vile 'n' twisted. She became a stranger. One day I woke 'n' found myself chained tae th' bed, 'n' she laughed at mah efforts tae free m'self. She was mirk 'n' violent."

Fjord's silent eyes grew wide. Dànaidh continued like a boulder down a mountainside.

"How was I tae kin whit she had planned? I'd ne'er bin…violated…afore, bit that dinnae stop her. Wi' each cry 'n' plea fer her tae halt, she wid lash out wi' more cruel stabs 'n' slices, all th' while strokin' mah cheek 'n' tellin' me she loves me. Th' bedsheets wur slippery wi' blood 'n' I drifted in 'n' out o' me head thro' th' rest o' th' daylight." Dànaidh coughed and flinched when he caught a stray tear fall down a cheek; he wiped it away quickly and stared stoically at Fjord. "So I…well…I dinna mean tae…"

"Don't worry," Fjord said, nodding.

"Damn her peely-wally bones," Dànaidh growled. He exhaled a short breath and turned back to the water. "Well, we found water. Tae bad I took aff wi'out a bucket!"

"You forgot—?" Fjord groaned in his paws. "'Gates."

"'Tis nae a' that bad. At least we have some time tae ourselves." Dànaidh sat down and pulled a small, dog-eared set of tied parchment out from one of the folds of his shirt. He stared intently at it and cleared his throat. "'This is…Ma…Matthias. See Matthias run. Run, Matthias, run! Cl—Clu—Cluny is at yer—y—ye—yo—your tail.' Mmm. 'This is Cl—Cluny.' Ooo, ugly bastard, innit he? 'See Cluny whip. Whip, Cluny…whip!' Cor, lookit th' size o' his tail!"

Fjord stifled a chuckle at the spectacle of the hardened hedgehog reading from a Dibbun's Redwall Reader. "All right, you pokey scholar…let's get back to the others and fetch a few buckets."

"As y'say," Dànaidh nodded, folding the parchment and replacing it within a fold of his garment. The two fell into pawstep and assisted each other on the uneven trek back to their hole in the earth.

…but three arrived back at the camp.


	47. Brave New Role

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 46. Brave New Role  
**

_by Juniper_

Juniper swayed on his footpaws at the edge of the field of vision, just far away enough that he stood outside the line drawn by the light of the campfire as he counted every injury that pained him. His throat burned from the bile that had risen from the depths of his stomach. His eye had swollen completely shut, pulsating with every beat of his heart that threatened to explode within his chest. His arms and legs were battered to the point where it was an effort to lift them. His body had bruised so much that he was not sure he would be recognizable if he stepped into the firelight. His paws felt as though he was rummaging through the embers of the small campfire. His maw continued to drip with blood from his wounds that had not yet had the chance to congeal. His nose, he found out, was still in his possession, otherwise Fjord would not have bothered to fix the patchwork pawkerchief that Hector had given him earlier in the day. Had it really been the same day? It almost seemed like several. Whatever the case, even though Juniper came to the conclusion that his nose still hung by a thread at the end of his muzzle, he would not have been surprised if Fjord had only fixed up the pawkerchief to give the illusion that it was there, and to soften the blow after everything else that had happened, pun notwithstanding. He had placed the lost canine in his pouch because he did not know what else to do with it, and the idea of discarding it just didn't seem right, for whatever reason. He knew he was being silly, but felt that he owed himself that much, at least.

Thera's cries had softened to something that skittered between sobbing and moaning as Hector tried his best to set her bones in place, the pine marten twins doing the same for Alastia's tail. Juniper's muzzle threatened a tic; none of them were healers, why should they play as one? The otter clamped his jaw shut, wincing at the stab of pain that ricocheted through his skull, though it had the desired effect. Both the tic and the thought had been properly stamped out. None of them deserved their injuries, least of all Thera. Juniper sighed and leaned against the wall, a burnt paw shaking as he removed the hat from his head to use as makeshift gauze. At this point he didn't care about having it look nice.

He saw Daskin crouched low next to the fire, observing the aftermath. His body was small, shivering; the poor kit probably had no idea what to think of it all. An overwhelming urge came over the otter to lay an arm around his shoulder, maybe give him a mock punch to put his mind on other things, but he stamped that desire out just as he did his bitter thought. From the scene he had made, instigating all the rest, he was sure the kit wanted nothing more to do with him.

"Let's get moving," Hector said, rising. He helped Thera to her footpaws, her arm resting inside a sling Hector had made from his pant legs.

The only thing that answered him as everybeast turned to look his way was the hissing and popping of the campfire, before the pine marten twins began collecting the torches and remaining fire sticks. Gergreg piled dirt on the small fire, though not before a second torch was lit to accompany the one in Hector's possession.

Juniper opened his mouth to protest, the hat flopping awkwardly as it stuck to his wounded gum, then shut it. Every time he tried to fight against leaving somebeast behind, he ended up getting hurt. It wasn't worth the pain.

"Come on, June," the fox said. Despite the otter's desire to remain hidden, Hector managed to look directly at him. Juniper grimaced, but it wasn't until everybeast started moving that he began to follow, though he remained mindful to walk far enough away to stay concealed in shadows.

The passage wound and curved like a snake's body, and if Juniper squinted, the two torchlights became the serpent's blazing eyes, making the illusion complete. It wasn't entirely convincing, but it did put his mind on other things, and he didn't have to focus on the pain or the heat that had possessed his paws. At least, for a while. He could only hold it off for so long before his body shook with tremors, shuddering as he fought to press on. He was tired, too. He did not want to walk, only to sit and rest, and it did not help that whatever path they were taking sloped upwards, making each step more difficult to take than the last. His jaw shifted in a tender attempt to grit his teeth.

Onwards and upwards into the belly of the beast they climbed, the torchlights swishing off in the distance. Juniper's hackles rose instinctively as what felt like a pair of eyes settled on his neck. The otter shuddered, then grimaced as a fresh wave of pain tore through his body. He shook his head, trying to dispel the eerie feeling, which worked quite well considering the massive headache that was developing within his skull. There was nothing there, he reasoned. His snake illusion was getting the better of him.

The otter turned his sights away from the group to look behind him. He still did not feel right leaving the hedgehog and hare behind, despite all that had happened. Dànaidh had harmed an innocent, breaking the vixen's arm as though it were a mere twig, and yet, he had still offered Juniper protection. He had to admit the hedgehog was a complicated character, a hero and villain all in one. What was he to do? Complete darkness engulfed the otter's vision. He could not trail back and collect them; he would lose the troupe, and as the only creatures that had access to a source of light, well, the answer was obvious. It did not stop him from feeling miserable, though.

He turned back around and blinked. There was something new in the cavern that Juniper hadn't noticed. The two torches were still bouncing ahead of him, as were the silhouettes of the troupe, but there was something else. His paw came up to block the light from the fires. A certain blue tinge had risen on the horizon like a pale moon. They continued to walk along the passageway, approaching the blue light, until one of the other troupe members noticed it, too.

"What's that up ahead?" It sounded like one of the Gergregs.

Everybeast halted in their tracks, then Hector said, "Seems like a blue light."

"Maybe it's the exit," Alastia said in excitement.

"Or maybe it's a trap," Gergreg replied.

"Well, there's only one way to find out," the fox said, and pressed on. The others were not far in following.

They approached the light cautiously, Hector and Gergreg stamping out the fire from their torches so that none of them could be caught off guard. Eventually the light dissolved into little pinpricks, like stars in the night sky. Then they were surrounded by them.

Hector investigated the sides of the tunnel. "They're mushrooms."

"Mushrooms, really?" Thera said.

"Yes. Daskin, what is this called?"

The answer was immediate. "Bioluminescence."

"Good lad." Hector turned back to the troupe. He and everybeast else was bathed in a blue light. "We won't need the torches anymore, but we'll keep them in case we lose the fungus."

Now that there were no shadows to hide behind, Juniper traveled closer to the group, trailing Daskin and Hector—not quite at their heels, but not that far away, either. They continued on in silence.

There was a change, Juniper noticed, in his relationship with the rest of the troupe. They were growing tired of him, and situations were becoming unreadable. It was getting harder and harder to rely on his acting, the otter realized. Usually, he could adopt a role to get himself out of a tricky situation, and in most cases, not only did it produce the desired effect, but he was commended for his portrayal and execution. But things were different now. Spontaneous, unscripted events were popping up. It was getting increasingly difficult to adapt his roles, even if it fit the situation at paw, and Juniper was finding that more often than not he was getting punished for his actions. Half of what he had been beaten for he felt he didn't even deserve. Leaving Daskin behind, and refusing to believe that Envie was dead. He shouldn't have been punished for that. But even when it didn't involve such dire consequences…. Juniper sniffed, wincing as a fresh bolt of pain traveled through his muzzle. What was he doing wrong?

And that was when it hit him. He wasn't trying hard enough. He was just playing around, flitting between roles and acts without any rhyme or reason. Of course he wasn't getting it. He was being too inconsistent!

He needed a story—a concrete plot to help guide his thoughts and actions. Juniper thought. A plot … like the murder of Abbess Dittany.

Suddenly the otter was springing in his step, a renewed sense of energy filling him as he settled on this ingenious idea. It was perfect, too perfect. And what was to be his role? Well, every story needed a hero, and who was the hero of a murder mystery other than the brilliant investigator? He already had three suspects. Two were behind them, and the other….

The otter touched Daskin's shoulder with a claw so that his flesh was spared from interaction. The kit looked up, and Juniper pulled his head back twice to indicate falling behind, then he slowed his pace.

Daskin shifted his gaze to Hector and Thera, walking steadily onwards, and then to Alastia and the Gergregs, the latter of which were still investigating the luminescent mushrooms as they traversed onwards. Their claws scratched the outer banks, pilling the dirt against their claws before the weight became too much and dropped to the ground. Daskin pulled back as well.

The otter ceased walking and watched as the troupe grew small in the bioluminescent cave. He waited until they had disappeared behind the next turn before squatting down on his haunches to meet the kit at eye level.

"What's going on?" Daskin asked, too loudly for Juniper's tastes.

Juniper put a paw to his muzzle, then tried to whisper something, but it was too muffled. A paw rose to remove the hat from his mouth, but an overbearing sensation of burning engulfed the extremity as he tried to grasp it. He put his shaking paw down and spat the hat onto his arm, after his tongue had peeled the cloth from his wound. He flexed his jaw gingerly.

"Come bach wif me." The otter grimaced. Did he really sound like that? "We ca' lea'e Dànai' an' Fjord behin'."

It took Daskin a moment to translate the otter. "Why not?" he finally said, his voice quiet. "Hector seems rather content on leaving them."

" 'Th no' righ'," Juniper said, wincing again. How much more of his jaw had swollen? "Athides, they woul'n' lea'e _uth_ behin'."

"I don't know…" The kit looked towards his only egress.

"Pweathe."

Daskin turned back, sharing a look with the otter. Even with one eye, Juniper could see he was conflicted.

"I nee' you."

Again, Daskin's gaze went to where the troupe had left them. Silence held the tunnel hostage.

He nodded, and Juniper grinned.

end of week two. 


	48. The Ace In the Hole

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

start of week three. 

**Chapter 47. The Ace In the Hole  
**

_by Shelton  
_

**SPECIAL THANKS TO  
Juniper  
Fjord Hollyhocks**

Thank you all for your patience!  


There was a certain musty odor in the air, the sort of odor that can only arise out of moldy wooden barrels and dry, stale bread. But wood and bread alone cannot create that smell, not overnight. To create that sort of atmosphere, it takes generations of moldy wooden barrels and dry, stale bread, rotting away over the years into a misty powder that bothers the eyes and burns the nostrils.

Doon lifted his head off the cellar floor, wishing for the hundredth time he could at least have been in a proper prison – at least the guards in proper prisons of the Northlands had always been proper beasts, and at least their cells had proper windows.

"It's morning, Scab," a voice called down from the staircase, high volume with an expressionless tone over his nondescript accent that seemed barely to be alive at all.

Doon rolled over, brushing spiders off his legs. He went through his routine of remembrance, a routine that never changed, morning after morning and night after night. First, he thought of his mother; he knew she missed him. Then he thought of his father; he missed his son, too. He thought of his younger sister; she'd be taller by now, perhaps half his height since the last time he had visited. He loved and missed them with all his heart; they were the beasts he knew he cared for in the world. They were the beasts that mattered.

Then he thought of Shelton.

"Scab, I said it's morning!"

"The name's Doon! Doon, you incompetent nothing! Go on, scrap my ration for the day. I'll still survive and I'll still break your neck when I get out." The snarling reply spat forth from Doon's snout before he had a second of thought; it was very nearly on impulse.

The jail-rat laughed; a hollow and empty laugh, as meaningless as anything the jailer did.

"There's a letter for you, Scab."

"Oh, really, is there. A letter from whom?"

"Your dib."

"Ah."

The jailer had played this game before. There was always a letter, every week. Doon brushed it off his mind, turned away from the staircase.

_My dib? He's… my dib?_

"Are you there, Scab?" The jailer sounded almost disappointed.

"I said I would break your neck, but I changed my mind. You can have something less dramatic. I'm going to break _his_ neck."

The rat laughed again – but hysterically this time, with an insane mirth that chilled Doon to the bone. A patch of light shined through the cell for just a moment, and a soggy leather pouch landed on the brick floor. Doon waited several minutes until he was sure the jailer had gone before he crawled over to examine it.

There was a letter.

"From Shelton X X: esq. by formality, adventurer by trade," it read. Doon stared at the text. The heading seemed to stare back at him.

"To my greatest friend, who thinks himself abandoned..."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Three Months Earlier~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"It doesn't matter to me if he did it or not; the point is, he ran, so it's my job to bring him back…"

Shelton stared at Cecil and Aya in front of him, not really listening to their conversation. He was having doubts about his idea; it was not the first time he had had doubts. He'd had doubts back then, so many years before, and after it was all over he had resolved never to doubt himself again. But this was different…

"I don't care," Aya yelled, with enough force to wake Shelton from his reverie. "I just need to get him back to Redwall along with the rest!"

"Maybe we shouldn't be discussing this quite so loudly," Shelton interrupted dryly, stepping between the squirrels. He smiled at Cecil and Aya in turn, thinking to himself as he did that the smile felt more hollow than usual. "It won't help anything if they hear us."

The ground shook for a moment, and screams resounded from somewhere none in the trio could see; they stared at each other for just a moment before breaking into a run, following the trail in earnest. The excitement drove other thoughts from Shelton's mind; he felt progress, felt himself getting closer to his goal at last. Aya would understand… He would make her understand, somehow.

He was good at that.

Aya brought them to a halt as the earth gave way mere steps ahead; Shelton's legs gave way on the dusty ground and he collapsed, paws outstretched mere twig-lengths from the edge. He stared into the blackness, wide-eyed, his ears twitching at the echoing murmur resounding from the empty depths before them.

"What in bloody blazes," Aya stammered, and slammed Cecil to the ground.

For just a moment, as he dug his claws into the earth, Shelton saw a light. It was the brightest light he had ever seen, and it was the greenest light he had ever seen, and it was growing larger and greater and brighter and stronger and faster and then he was blind and he felt an impact somewhere beneath his body, in the ground.

Then he heard a sound like a cookie being broken into bits by little paws and dropped into a glass of milk, and a sound like a herd-keeper's whistle, and he thought of the last time he had heard that on a little farm west of Shonia where they were waiting for him; and then he realized the impact had gone, and he couldn't feel the ground anymore, and he knew it was because he was falling.

He hit something, and his thoughts gave out, and for just a half-moment he felt a crushing pain in his right side until that went away, too, and he was forced into sleep by the workings of his own body.

~~~~~

The sounds of the forest stirred on every side of the search party as they stumbled through foliage.

"Boi'urr, they'm be somerplace 'round 'err, Oi'm surrten!"

"Can't understand a damn fil'y word she says," sounded one complainer.

At a sign from their leader, the group came to a stop.

"Hurr, what's—"

"Quiet, Terry, you idiot! Look at the sky!"

In the distance, a brilliant green light shot up, illuminating the faces of four uniformed rats and their mole companion.

"That's th' murderers!" one of the rats shouted.

"It'm be too broight," Terry the mole whined, covering her eyes

"It's them! It has to be 'em! Jus' like at th' Abbey. Quick, on the move!"

The green light reached its apex, shivered, dimmed, and finally the dead fire-stick collapsed toward the ground.

The rats and mole set off at a swift clip, arriving much as Aya, Shelton, and Cecil had - that is to say, they nearly took a tumble down the gaping chasm that had split across the landscape. It was only the torch held firm in the leader's paw that warned them of their impending doom before it was too late.

"Burr," Terry intoned, raising a disdainful brow as she shuffled toward the edge and looked down, "they'm doan't take gudd care o' their tunnels."

"Fat lot of good that does us," the most vocal complainer grumbled. "What are we going to do, Will?"

The leader, Willis, shrugged. "Don't think we should climb down."

"Ooo, ain't he the sharpest blade in the set?" another of the rats, Strophide, sneered.

"Stuff it 'less you lot got any ideas!" Willis barked, and the other three rats fell silent. He swished his tail and glared at the hole - it had obviously eaten their quarries, but what was there to do about that? Climbing would be suicidal, and jumping down equally so without knowing how deep it went. If not for the fire-stick going off, the rat might have suspected every beast down there was dead. Probably a few were. A leer trickled across his face; if they weren't dead now, they might be soon.

"H'excuse Oi, zurr," Terry piped up after a thoughtful minute or so. "But Oi reckon there be'm other ways t'get into ee tunnels than down ee 'ole. Oi know what we'm shudd be lookin' fer."

"Why didn't you say so earlier?"

"Hurr... Oi'm gurtly sorry, Zurr Willis, but Oi on'y thought o' it noaw."

"Figures, the feather-brained dirt-muncher," Strophide put in. Willis stamped on the other rat's footpaw, resulting in a pained yelp.

"Never you mind Stroppy here, Terry. Lead on."

~~~~~

Shelton ached everywhere. He had not felt this bad since he was on the wrong side of a short table with Ruffian McPhearson – he should have known not to play against a name like that, but as ridiculous as it was, the ferret's bite actually managed to turn out far worse than his dook. It had been a momentary lapse of good judgment, and the lesson learned had left quite a lasting impression, in the cautionary sense if not physical.

He shrugged the memory out of his haze-filled brain as his limbs tested the area around him, finding that dirt and rocks surrounded his prone form. If he had not known better, he would have wagered himself at the bottom of a small mound. His body began to stir next and, surely enough, loose pebbles and rocks shifted against the movement.

A cacophonous groan accompanied the shifting gravel as Shelton sought to remove himself from his earthy casket, but no sooner had he begun then he hesitated at the sound of approaching voices. He shut his eyes tight in an attempt to dispel the growing headache that threatened to encumber his frame, and focused on the conversation at paw, thinking it best not to let his mind dwell on his injuries.

"—Your fault, wot! Breaking a chappess's arm like that…"

"I already tol' ye I could nae help it."

"All the same, sah. We find ourselves in quite the prickle-induced pickle, eh? All because the bashful brutish brush batters bonnie bitches by breaking brittle bones."

Shelton's mind worked as he put faces to the voices, and then names to the faces, suppressing a groan in between as the gears in his head protested the exercise. The foppish voice belonged to the hare, who, if Shelton was not mistaken, had introduced himself as a type of inlet. The unmistakable highlander had to be the hedgehog, Dànaidh.

Then there was a new voice - extremely nasal, by the sound of it.

"_Oy_," it said.

"I say, who's that?"

"Mebbe 'tis one o' those beasts what's bin watchin' us."

"We're being watched?"

"Aye. Felt it in me quills."

Shelton stiffened, wincing as more rocks and pebbles came loose.

"Did you now?" Fjord continued, seeming not to notice the shifting pile of earth. "Why didn't you say anything about it?"

"Meh, didnae seem important at th' time."

"Too busy asserting brawn over brain, yes."

"_Oy_!"

"There it is again, wot."

"Name yerself! Friend or foe!"

" 'Th Yune."

"What did he say?"

"I ken 'e said Yune."

"Maybe it's June."

"Are ye daft? 'Tis nae June; 'tis March."

"I mean Juniper, you pernicious pincushion!"

"Ahh. June, is that you, me fine lad?"

"Aye."

"June, really? Quite noble of you to come back for us chaps."

"Where are ye?"

" 'M righ' here."

"Cor, ye didnae bring a light, laddie?"

"Well, that's abso-bally-lutely flipping fantastic. How are we going to catch up with the rest of the troupe? Are they waiting for us a little farther on, then?"

Shelton could barely hear the voices as his head pulsed with pain, and the pulsing began to spread through the right side of his body like a fire enveloping a scrap of paper. He gritted his teeth, struggling not to cry out as the voices continued.

"No, they wen' off withou' uth," said Juniper.

"Figures. I knew it was a sore idea putting my trust in a band of deceitful vermin."

"Us, ye say? Who else be with ye?"

"Thilver."

"Thil-Silver? Are you really there?"

There was a pause; "Yes, I'm here."

"Ahh, good lad. I knew ye wouldnae let us down!"

"I'm only here because June asked me to come," the kit explained rather stiffly.

"Oaw, wot a shame."

_"Time to move," _ Shelton thought as he heard the party's pawsteps shifting in place. Digging claws into the ground with his left paw, he pulled himself from the rubble he had been buried under. No one seemed to notice the shifting pile of dirt – once Shelton was finally sitting upright, his entire body now pulsating with pain and his head resting heavily in his paws, he noticed that the pitch-blackness in the tunnel was not just an effect of the dirt piled that had been piled on top of him.

His head turned upwards, able to discern the sinkhole he had fallen in from the stars that filtered themselves down, but aside from those celestial points, there was no light to be found. Shelton could not even discern the paw in front of his face.

"Come on," June was saying. "We migh' thtill be able to catch up to them."

The sound of shuffling paws drifted to Shelton's ears before he realized what was happening. They were leaving, and if he stayed here, who knew how long it would take before Aya and Cecil found a way down? The stoat was sure that he could afford the wait. The question he had to ask himself was whether or not he wanted to wait. But Shelton was a beast of action, and he decided that he did not want to wait. So he coughed.

"Did you hear that?" Fjord asked.

"Hear wha'?" June replied.

Shelton coughed again, struggling against the dust in his lungs.

"That! It sounded like a cough."

"You think somebeast is here with us?" Daskin asked.

"Well, if a cough is a cough, it must belong to somebeast, so yes, I think somebeast is here with us, wot."

"Oy!" Dànaidh called out to the darkness. "State your name."

"Shelton," came the reply. The pain in Shelton's side had begun to subside into a dull ache; he tried to raise himself up but had to abandon it as his right leg stung sharply.

"Thel'on?"

"Yes," the stoat answered.

"Who'th Thel'on?" Juniper whispered, albeit not very softly.

"That stoat chap who's been following us. Has a chin made of iron." Fjord answered the otter. Shelton's jaw forced a grimace as his paw went up, confusedly, to check the construct of his maw.

"Say there, would one of you mind helping me up? I seem to be in a bit of a shamble, here," Shelton called out, wincing again as he shifted his leg.

"An' why should we do that? Jus' so ye c'n haul us back t'Redwall?" Dànaidh called out in a rough voice.

"Really now," Shelton scoffed, putting on the best air of nonchalance he could while sitting in darkness on a leg he suspected was broken. "This lovely pit took me in following the explosion of that damned fire-stick. Aya and Cecil are still on the surface, and I assure you that I'm hardly in a position to detain the lot of you. Or any of you. Not even one of you, really."

"I dunno," Dànaidh grumbled. "Smells fishy t'me."

"Besides," Shelton added. "I'm asking to follow you. If I were leading you into a trap, I'd be the one leading, wouldn't you agree?"

Silence.

"Theemth logical t' me."

"And why should we trust you, sah?"

"Well," said Shelton, drawing a breath. His heart beat quickly for a moment as he flipped answers back in forth in his head, like pages in a logbook. "It could be said I have a price on my own head."

The group held themselves in a murmured conversation; the only sounds Shelton could discern were Dànaidh's gruff highlander accent, and June's recently acquired lisp, as well as the occasional 'Wot.'

"Aiight, me wee bonnie stoat, ye c'n follow us. But nae funny business, else yer tail'll be so far up your rear it'll be ticklin' your throat. Noaw, where ye be sittin'?"

"Over here."

It took a number of audible cues before the stoat was successfully located, and he appreciated the help getting to his footpaws, as he was not sure if his own were actually there. Shelton coughed as he dusted himself off until it climaxed at a sneeze; then he spent the remainder clutching his skull as shockwaves of pain tore through his body. He rose up to his full height with a paw from Juniper, and was relieved to find his leg did not collapse beneath him, though it did sharply remind him of his injury.

"Doesn't anybeast here have a torch, or a match, or somesuch?" he asked brightly, though he knew it a useless question.

" 'Th no' hard t'naviga'e," June said. "There'th a ligh' thourthe further on."

"Don't you mean farther?" asked Shelton reflexively.

"Do I? Wha'th the differenthe?"

Nobeast bothered to answer. Shelton wondered why he had said anything at all.

The five creatures began the trek through the tunnel, silence accompanying their steps like a heavy weight. Shelton supposed everybeast had something to keep them quiet. From what he had picked up from the conversation between Fjord and Dànaidh, the two had been stranded in complete darkness. June had a new lisp, which probably meant he had done something stupid to deserve it, and Silver … Silver was the only one Shelton could not get a good read out on. There was something to be said for the fact that he was a mere kit, but for some reason, he had an air of mystery concealing him.

At one point or another, it was Juniper that broke the silence.

"Di' anybeath know th' Abbeth had been mur'ered?"

The stoat's ears perked up. Why in the world had Juniper brought up such a taboo topic with him so close by? As expected, nobeast sought to answer his question. The silence was answer enough.

"I thee…" Juniper said at some length. "Well, 'ow did you know?"

"Hector told me on our first night," Fjord said, perhaps a little too quickly. Shelton raised an eyebrow, wondering what had brought on the sudden interrogation.

"Hec'or?" Juniper repeated.

"Aye, the fox chap that's been leading us on this merry little chase."

Shelton had to bite his lip from laughing at that – laughter was painful – but the otter seemed not to notice, or care. "Dànai'? How'd you fin' ou'?"

"Overheard 'em talkin'," the hedgehog said. His voice was much more quiet than usual.

Hush, save the soft pad of footpaws through the tunnel, once again overtook the five. There was a soft pop of a groan, before Juniper managed to bite it back. Shelton coughed, and noticed blood on his paw. He wiped it quietly on his jacket.

"Have to say, chap, I'm a bit surprised you didn't know," Fjord piped up awkwardly, once the discomfort had become unbearable.

Juniper hesitated before replying. "Wha' d'you mean?"

"Well, you seem pretty close to Hector, is all. I would have thought he'd've told you by now."

"No, thith ith the firtht I've hear' o' it."

"You know, I've been meaning to ask you…" the hare went on.

"Wha'?"

"Well. That big show you put on back there. Surely you didn't think Envie was still alive."

Shelton blinked, wondering what sort of company he'd gotten himself into. He thought of asking, but rationalized that he had more than enough problems of his own at that moment.

"Of, of courthe not." The stutter seemed to disagree.

"So then why the theatrics?" Fjord persisted. "What was the point of setting that fire-stick off in your paws?"

The otter hesitated, mostly likely trying to think of a good response. "Oh, you know me." He laughed a false, nervous laugh. "It'th all for the goo' of the thow. Can't dithappoin' the audience."

"Really? An act? You set the fire-stick off in your bare paws, you endanger our lives with the threat of a tunnel collapse, and it was all a flippin' game to you?"

"No," Juniper said, but then retracted it. "Yeth. I—I knew wha' I wath doing, you know."

"Did you? What about what happened at the river? If you hadn't been playing around, Envie's life could have been spared."

Juniper sputtered as he tried to explain himself. "Well, I mean, it wath an acthiden'. I didn' know wha' wath goin' on."

"Juniper, sah." Fjord sighed. "What's the matter with you?"

"Look, see the blue ligh'? We're coming up on the muthroomth."

A certain blue tinge had appeared in the distance.

"Cor, June. Ye were nae kiddin' when ye said they were mushrooms. I've nae seen anythin' like this!"

Shelton blinked his eyes rapidly as they entered the mushroom patch, watching the lights blur into one great spot and then back into several. His ears perked up as a sound like the tap of a wooden barrel echoed through the tunnel.

"No, me—" June began.

"What was that?" Shelton asked, his hackles rising instinctively.

"Sounds like a group of beasts approaching, wot."

"Ith i' Hec'or?"

"If it is, we've been traveling in the wrong direction," said Daskin.

The hedgehog gritted his teeth. "Th' lad's right. Shelton, Fjord, get t' either side o' me. June, take Daskin an' stay behind us."

The five stood in stark formation, the blue glow of the mushrooms illuminating them so that there were no shadows to hide behind. In the distance, dark shapes appeared that grew and coalesced into five beasts; four rats and a mole. All of them had weapons drawn.

"Wot did Oi zay, zurr? There 'em be, hurr hurr hurr."

"Stow it, Terry," the largest of the rats snapped.

"What is it ye want wit' us?" Dànaidh called out in a menacing voice. "We be but weary beasts tryin' to find a way out o' this tunnel."

Shelton suppressed a groan. Putting on the airs of a lost traveler was not bound to work when played with such gruffness. He wished he had spoken instead. He wished his chest would not sting every time he tried to speak.

As Shelton had expected, the biggest rat laughed. "I'm sure you are. Yer all unner arrest by order of the Skipper o' Otters."

"On what grounds, sah?" Fjord puffed his chest out, but it deflated as the rat's laugh grew into a guffaw.

"You don't know? Fleein' the scene of the crime! We follered you all the way from Redwall Abbey."

"You can' prove anything!" June cried out.

"Oh, no? Seems ter me like you don't want to go back. Any particular reason why?"

"No," June stated flatly, but then trailed off.

Shelton rolled his eyes. "Now then, lads, cheer up. We left the Abbey because it seemed a poor place to entertain after the accident," he explained, trying to lean against a mushroom.

"Aye, you left after the explosion, and you left in quite a hurry," the leader replied.

"I think it's 'cause they're guilty," another of the rats hissed. "'N they did it."

Shelton slid to the ground, realizing that mushrooms had an unfortunate tendency to be slippery. The pain returned to his body. Two of the rats snorted in laughter.

"We're nae goin' back," Dànaidh said. "Unless ye want t' make us."

Shelton closed his eyes, cursing under his breath.

"Oh, he wants a fight then? I might be able to oblige," said the third rat.

"Aye, look at them! They ain't fit t' be fightin'. Don't even have a weapon between 'em."

Shelton unconsciously touched his breast. His dagger was gone, of course. He had sold it in Atherton.

"'Cept that 'un, maybe." The rat pointed to Shelton.

"Damn it all, I'm unarmed," he shouted.

"Oy, Will, let's just kill them an' drag their corpses back ter the Abbey. It'll be easier than tyin' them up."

"Are yeh daft, Stroppy? We won't get no reward with them dead."

"Well, maybe we'll get half of it."

"Stow it. I don't want t' listen ter yer idiocy."

Silence settled in the tunnel as each beast examined the others. Then Will broke the silence.

"Hey. I know that jacket." He was looking at Shelton. His face spread into a toothsome grin. "You're the one th't Duke Ten'leep wants. Imagine that, lads! Th' price on him is bigger than the rest o' these buggers combined!"

"What?" Shelton asked reflexively. He could almost feel the blood draining from his face.

"Cor, is that right?" the unnamed rat asked.

"Aye." Will grinned at Shelton. "Yer worth a lot o'money, Stoat. If not t' the Duke, t' somebeast else, at least…"

"Who?" asked Stroppy, confused.

"Shut up, Strophide! I'm runnin' the show, here." Will turned back to Shelton. "Ha! It is you. I can see by the way yer tail's twitchin'. Y'know, once the Duke figgered it out, he thought o' askin' fer something far more'n wot you owe him, t' see yer safe return, that is. Can't have the Forerat's gang findin' out, can we?"

"They won't care," Shelton tried, but his throat had gone completely dry.

"You don't think so? Th' Duke disagrees, mate." Will laughed. "Leave that 'un alive, at least," he said to the others. "Th' rest is just petty change."

With that, the rats and mole began their advance. Dànaidh was the only one that stepped forward to meet them.

Then somebeast started to run, and Shelton lost all bearing of what was going on.

A cutlass swung down; he found himself assailed by the smallest rat. It was all the stoat could do to avoid the massive blade's swings, stumbling back across the bed of mushrooms. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dànaidh fling himself onto his back, a rat beneath his spined figure; the screams reverberated through the tunnel, threatening its collapse. Fjord had engaged his foe in what could only be described as a dance, though the hare had very little to offer in offense. The mole had moved beyond the front line and was chasing Juniper and Daskin, brandishing a club. Neither the otter nor the ferret seemed to know what to do, and had already run away.

All this, Shelton took in within a second's glance before he pushed it to the back of his head. He had his own life to worry about. His mind raced as the cutlass-wielding rat ran at him again.

_"Not here…"_

He rolled to the side, yelping from the effort of his bruised body as his attacker tripped over a slippery mushroom he had just sliced in half. Shelton saw the glint of light on a small dagger dangling from the rat's belt. The brute had strength; the stoat could see that well enough, but that strength took speed with it. There were opportunities, split seconds... Shelton ducked under the wide sweep of the rat's cutlass as he swung again, and sprang forward, plucking the dagger from his opponent's belt. Time seemed to slow; he noticed that his body had stopped hurting. Fear and excitement filled his veins. He hurled himself into his foe's legs, knocking them to the ground.

_"Not yet…"_

Eyes stared over at him in shock. Shelton was surprised at how little resistance there had been to his attack. The rat screamed and writhed, reaching for the dagger that had plunged into his chest, before the writhing finally stopped.

Shelton rose to his footpaws, eyes wide. He had killed the rat – that much was obvious, though he was not sure how it had happened. The excitement bubbled over and he could not keep his focus. His eyes searched wildly around him: Fjord was on the ground, his head a bloody mess, and the rat that had been attacking him had turned his sights on the hedgehog, joining his other companion. The mole and the last rat had cornered Juniper and Daskin; the mole was raising her club back to strike at the otter. Before Shelton could think – he was completely unable to think – he had somehow moved behind the mole, and his paw was pulling her head back and exposing her throat as his bloody dagger made a clean horizontal cut across her neck. Blood sprayed from the wound as Shelton watched himself move.

Then he felt a jolt.

A dull pain spread through his abdomen, a pain that became sharper and sharper. The stoat looked down, surprised to see blood oozing from a wound.

It was his wound; a wound he had not seen or noticed, and did not quite understand until he saw reflections of blue being cast off a bit of steel, and realized that the steel was protruding from his own body. He watched as it withdrew, inch by tenuous inch.

The pain ceased, and Shelton fell to the ground.

The respite did not last long. After only a moment, it hit him again as strongly as if the sword had stabbed him again. His insides were on fire, and Shelton clutched at his stomach, unable to stop the blood that poured forth from his innards. His eyes searched wildly around him, trying to find order in the madness. His mind raced madly down a thousand memories and imaginings.

_"The cards..."_

The cards had an order, he remembered. There was a pattern, if you searched for one. There was always some sort of design, some scheme. Something to hold onto. Someone to rely on.

Dànaidh was sitting on top of Will, his bloodied fists rising and falling in a chaotic rhythm; another rat lay beside them. Stroppy sat against the wall of the cavern, Fjord's whip entangled around his throat—the rat was clutching at it — and Fjord was kicking away a bloodied cutlass from the one Shelton had left for dead, yelling for him to stay down. Leaving that one had been a grave mistake, Shelton realized now.

He smiled, or tried to smile.

_"So much for beginner's luck..."_

"Are you all right, sah?"

Shelton blinked and tried to look up, but a jolt of pain kept his eyes focused on the ceiling. It hurt too much; the stoat wanted to throw up, but then he felt like that was already happening.

_"There's a letter,"_ he tried to say aloud, unsure of whether he was succeeding. His mouth was not working properly. His eyes were not working properly. His mind was beginning to fail. _"A letter in my pocket. Please have it delivered."_

A paw was tugging at his arm, but Shelton did not want to relinquish the hold he had on his abdomen, for fear that if he did everything would come spilling out and he would not able to put it back together and that would spoil his good looks forever-

Someone was standing over him.

"Are you all right?"

He heard a voice from far away, then another, further and further. He could no longer see them, but he knew they must be there. Why were they hovered over him like that?

_"Well. Guess my streak had to end sooner or later."_

What did this remind him of? All feeling had left him, except for a gentle breeze that blew over his face. It was pleasant. The pull of gravity had released him, and he knew he was floating. He smiled, and remembered what he had forgotten.

"Don't worry, folks," he laughed in his mind, not caring if they heard him or not. "It's not the end of the world!"

Then his mind went blank for the last time.

_"It's just me."_

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Six Months Later~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

As the stoat stopped to rest, he pondered the meaning of the word 'house.'

A house, he thought, was something of a dwelling. A place where beasts ate, slept and lived, or did at least one of those things. But there was a problem with that definition; he was looking for a house, and it was supposed to be at this spot.

But this was not a house; it was a mansion, nestled in amongst the ironed streets of Shonia. Two pillars, emblazoned in unknown crests, stood astride the great wooden doorway.

_He never told me... He never told me it was a place like this._

Doon took a deep breath, dusted his boots against the ironwork grating, and coughed.

_That bastard._

He rang the bell. The speech he had practiced over and over welled up in his throat.

"My Lord, I-"

"Yes, who are you?"

A smartly-dressed fox; the butler.

"I'm-excuse me. I'm a friend of..."

_Was that even his real name?_

"...A friend of the young Lord Tavorous."

"There has been no young Lord in this house for eight years," the butler replied sternly, without hesitation. "Take your business elsewhere."

The door shut in his face. Doon stared for a few moments. He gritted his teeth, and knocked again. The Butler looked annoyed as he appeared once more.

"I must ask you to-"

"Let me into this damned house!" Doon shouted, all pretenses at politeness disappearing - before the wiry fox could react, Doon had shoved him backward, where he tumbled awkwardly onto the wooden floor. "I've come too far to be turned away. I need to speak with the Lord and Lady, now!"

"A friend of the Lord, you say?" came a gentle female voice.

"Forgive me, Mum, I was attempting-"

"It's alright," the lady insisted; she appeared from the top of the staircase, her silken dress rippling with each downward step. Doon's heart beat faster. His plan had already fallen apart. He had never been an actor.

"My... my lady, I need to speak to you, about - Shelton."

"Why not speak with him directly?" she suggested, with a practiced but benevolent smile. "He should be in the dining hall."

_What?_

Doon's heart skipped a beat.

_Impossible._

He followed the Lady Tavorous dumbly, stopping only to kick off his boots, taking no notice of his fanciful surroundings.

_He couldn't still be..._

"And there he is," the lady explained, pointing to a figure standing by the window - a tall stoat, dressed in trim fittings of white with brass buttons down the middle... Doon ran forward suddenly, calling out a cry that seemed to arise on its own.

"Shelton?"

The figure spun around - and Doon understood.

"Lord Tavarous," he stammered, dropping his head. He had been foolish. Blinded by hope.

"He addresses me by my common name?" the lord asked, looking only at his lady.

"But the dib has come so far, can you not tell? And he looks so tired. Listen to what he has to say, Dear," she implored.

"Lord Tavarous," Doon repeated, with more conviction. He had only to deliver the message, and this terrible mission would end. "I... bring word, news, from... from your son."

The words were not coming out right, not like he had planned at all.

"Do you?" said the lord disinterestedly. "What is your name, dib?"

"Muldoon Davenny. I bring word, that Shelton - I mean, your son wishes, he sends a wish – he wants to thank you for your generosity in paying his debt," Doon stammered.

"Is that all?" the lord curtly inflected, narrowing his eyes. The lady settled herself in a chair, quietly observing. Doon's heart sunk. Anger had left him; everything had left him.

"He wished me to inform you that... that while he appreciates your contributions..."

Doon bit his lip.

"He will not be returning home."

"I see," the lord replied quickly. "And that is your message, yes? Why could you not have sent it by post? But nonetheless, I thank you. You may leave our home now."

"Yes, sir."

He turned to leave, placing his cap back on his head. The house seemed to be crushing him, squeezing the breath out of him. He wanted to leave, to put this cruel, unfeeling place behind him. He wanted to get away; to run. He took another breath.

"He's dead," Doon shouted, turning back around, letting his eyes bore into the back of the lord's skull. Lady Tavorous buried her head in her paws but did not move. "He's dead," the young stoat repeated more quietly. "And he saved my life, through you. Through that letter. I sent it. He told me to."

There was a long silence. Doon stood, staring at the immobile figure before him. The lady sat in her chair. Lord Tavorous did not turn away from the window.

"I know," he replied at length, his voice quavering. "Thank you, Mr. Davenny."  
Doon returned to the door. He replaced his boots, shook the paw of the butler, and opened the door. Faint sea breeze met his nostrils; sounds of activity in the streets met his ears.

_"You really were a fool to the end, Shelton..."_

Doon sniffed, and then he knelt by the side of the road, weeping openly.

_"You really were a fool."_

A gust of wind chilled him after a minute or two. He rose, and realized there was something he could do to honor Shelton's memory - and he dried his eyes, and rose to his full height.

In a quiet alleyway in west Shonia, Muldoon Davenny smiled, and knew that nothing could ever take the smile from his face again.


	49. Carry Each Other

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 48. Carry Each Other  
**

_by Dominic  
_

Darron was dead.

They didn't tell Dominic this until the next morning, after breakfast.

They'd dug graves on the outskirts of the town. Dominic stared into the last one. It was uneven, not very deep. It was just a hole to put a body in. The others had already been buried.

Cones and Rod carried Darron out and lay him beside the grave. They left without a word. Dominic clutched Ella's paw tight. There was nobeast else. As it should be. Dominic began to regret his request for solitude.

He quelled this notion quickly. He was not beholden to anybeast. He would do his own job. If it were up to him, he would never have to rely on another beast again. Now that he had Ella, it was up to him. There was nothing more they could hold over him.

Darron's wound had been wrapped up. The blood had been cleaned off his fur. But it was still a dead body. And now he had to do right by it, alone.

Dominic sat on the edge of the hole and eased Darron down into it, head first. Ella watched.

-

_"Darron! Darron, where're y' goin'?"_

"Work. Stay here."

"Aww, don't go t' work. Stay home an' play with me."

"Can't. Gotta go to work. Someone's gotta. Gotta be me."

"Pop'll go. You can stay an' play."

"Don't you get it_, Dominic? Pop ain't comin' back! Ma's gone! If'n y' want to eat, I gotta go get money!"_

"Maybe I don't_ want t' eat! Maybe I want my brother!"_

"Tchk!"

The door slammed.

...···...···...

Dominic clutched the edge of the table, eyes and nose just peeking out above it. Darron sat slumped with his elbow on the table, his face melting into his paw. After a few minutes he raised the tankard to his lips and drank.

"Darron?"

No reply.

"Darron?"

Darron took another sip.

"Daaaarron?"

"What?_?"_

Dominic sat up straight. "I found a bug."

"Go away."

"I found a bug for you, too."

"Go to bed."

"We could race them!"

No reply. Darron took another sip.

"I'm gonna go race my bug." Dominic slipped off the chair. "If you wanna race your bug, it's on the chair here."

He slipped out of the house and sat in the dirt by the road. He let his bug down to skitter about in circles between his paws. Every now and again he would glance up and look through the open doorway.

And Darron would take another sip.

...···...···...

"Daaaarron. Daaaarrooooon. Daaaaaarrooooooo-"

"What in Hellgates, Dominic? It's middle of the night!"

"I don't feel good."

"Well, what d' you want me to do about it?"

"I pooked on the floor."

Darron sighed. "First of all, it's 'puked', not 'pooked'. Don't be an idiot. Second, shut up and go back to sleep."

"I'm cold." Dominic pulled his blanket around his chin. "An' then I get all hot."

"Deal with it. And don't_ wake me up again."_

"Wait!" Darron paused in the doorway. "Are you going t' work?"

"In the morning, aye."

Dominic closed his eyes and shivered. "Okay."

Darron stomped back to his own room. Dominic heard the door slam, and then a muffled, "Aw, Hellgates. It's all over! Damnit, Dom."

He curled up with his nose between his legs and tried to sleep. Between Darron's cursing and the dizzying pain pulsating through his head, it was a long night. Exhaustion claimed him in the end.

_...···...···...___

Birds were singing outside when he woke up. Sunlight revealed the snowfall of dust over his bed. The rancid smell that pervaded his dreams was gone. Dominic leaned over the bed and saw the floor was clean. He'd been given a new blanket as well.

Moving made him dizzy, so he lay back down.

Darron came in with a mug of warm tea and put it on the nightstand.

"Da-a-arron?" Dominic croaked. He felt like he'd eaten sand.

"What?"

"H'come you're not at work?"

"Got the day off when I told 'em you threw up everywhere."

"That's nice."

"Drink the tea. There's a bucket here if you're going to throw up again."

"Darron?"

"What?"

"If you're not going to work... can you play games with me?"

Darron's shoulders slumped with a sigh.

"Aye. I can play your stupid games."

He took a box of snail shells and marble rocks off the shelf and sat at the edge of the bed. He dumped them out on the sheet between Dominic's legs, and began arranging them according to size.

"Swirls or dots?"

Dominic pointed at a snail shell.

The game grew tiresome when Darron beat him ten times in a row, and by then Dominic had finished his tea and took a nap. When he woke up later, Darron had found three mugs and a tiny dead ladybug. Dominic never won this game, either.

-

"Your Uncle Darron, Ella. He was something."

They patted down the dirt, he and Ella. At least, he patted. Ella mostly spread it around in circles, amusing herself with the patterns.

"Our mum, she ran off one day, see. I think she died. My pop, he left, too. Or died. Darron's pop already died. So it was just me and Darron. I wasn't much older than you are now. Darron was younger than I am, too. He went to work in the lumberyard. I barely saw him when he was home. He made food and went to sleep. I don't know what I did all this time. I don't remember much. Don't eat that, it's not food."

Ella spat out the snail shell she'd found in the dirt.

"So Darron, he was my pop as well as my brother. Our uncle came in, for a while. Our mum's brother." Dominic frowned. He'd built a little cairn of rocks at the head of the grave, and now his paw paused, poised above it with another little stone. "Things were better when he left."

"This my rocks." Ella passed him a clump of dirt. He put it on the cairn. He stood up and reached down to let Ella climb onto his shoulders again.

"And then one day, Faye was living with us. And Darron said I had to go sleep in the toolshed. Even though they never used my bedroom. There was no reason for that. And Faye knew it. She would argue..." And she always lost. But only against Darron. Everybeast else bent like a willow against Faye's storm. She was fire! "She would take me to town when he worked. We would look for things Darron would like. And then he would throw them against the wall when he got home. He would shout at us for wasting money on useless trinkets. And then he would go to the tavern. And then he would come home and pee on himself and pass out in the hallway."

Dominic kicked the stones over.

"And then he tried to kill me for money."

"Bad Darron."

"Very bad," Dominic agreed. He sat down again and reached to put the stones back. Ella slipped off his back. "It was my fault. I pushed him too hard. I was always sick. He had to spend so much time dealing with that. Trying to put food on our table. It wore him out. And the lads at the yard, they were tough on him, too. And Faye. Faye's fire that burned so bright he shut it out."

"Faye's not on fire. I din' do it."

"No, not that kind of fire. Get me those rocks over there, bring them to me." Ella toddled off to scoop them up. "Darron was a simple beast, I think. A simple beast who got pushed too much. Who had to push back all the time. I hated him for it."

"This isn't much of a funeral, is it?" Belette said. Dominic looked up at her. She'd put on a black dress with a matching bonnet. She must have been standing there for a while. He hadn't heard her approach.

"Not really," he said. "But I've never been to one. I wouldn't know."

"I have. There's supposed to be flowers." From her bodice, she procured a single lily. She knelt and gave it to Ella. Dominic had to stay his daughter's from trying to put the flower in her mouth. He guided Ella's paw to the grave dirt and shook her wrist until she let go.

Ella looked up at Belette. "Poppy, this our mum today?"

Dominic blushed. "No, Ella. This is Belette. She's a friend." He glanced at Belette. She winked. He smiled a little, and added, "For now."

"Hello, Ella."

Ella stared at Belette and sucked her paw distrustfully, hiding behind Dominic.

"How is Hannah?" Dominic asked.

"She's asleep early. She's fine."

"I'm glad she..." Dominic's voice broke. "I'm glad she didn't have him in her life."

Belette just nodded.

"No one should have had Darron in their lives."

"There's nothing we can do about it now," Belette said. "Personally, I owe him a great deal of gratitude, and Faye, too."

"I... I know. I didn't mean it like that. Tchk! Hellgates, Belette, I didn't mean-"

"It's okay. I shouldn't have said anything. I didn't know him."

"You can say whatever you like," Dominic insisted. "The bugger's dead now."

Belette began to help rebuilding the cairn.

"At least we can appreciate what he's left behind. Not the hurt. The good things. When my husband passed on, Tristram said something about him. I think it fits with what you were saying earlier. I could repeat it for him, if you like."

"I would."

"'Yet in the end, despite all the trials, the traumas, the heartbreaks life offers every one of us, it's the simple weasels we remember best of all.'"

Dominic nodded. It would do.

Ella sat on his lap and sucked her paw. "Poppy, 'm I a simple weasel?"

"Aren't you?" He tugged her ears and worried.

What was he going to tell Faye?


	50. Exchanges

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 49. Exchanges  
**

_by Daskin  
_

"Dans toutes les professions chacun affecte une mine et un extérieur pour paraître ce qu'il veut qu'on le croie. Ainsi on peut dire que le monde n'est composé que de mines."  
-Rochefoucauld

###

Blood. Grime and darkness and the curious bitter taste of excitement, too… but mostly blood, metallic and sour, dominated Daskin's senses. The splatter from the dying mole painted his neck and throat and touched his muzzle as well, fine droplets sticking in his fur. A more substantial splash from Shelton's knifestroke stained his cloak at the shoulder, and the blood there had already begun to dry into a tar-like mess, red fluid turned black against the green fabric.

Daskin brushed his paw through his fur, and felt the damp heat of it, mixing with the sweat of his panic.

Shelton was there in front of them, stumbling—the stoat tried to whimper out words but Daskin couldn't make them out, not over the deafening thump of his heartbeat… and Shelton fell. Their pursuer had been vanquished, and yet—Daskin cast a frightened gaze to and fro, and sighted Fjord standing over the last of their attackers with menace, and the rat scampered away into the dark—and yet Daskin felt no rush of relief, no joy.

Juniper stood next to him, and Danaidh still lived, and Fjord. But the blood against his skin and the blood wrapped inside it burned, and Daskin's head swam, and for once he could think nothing at all. Juniper tugged a bit at his paw, gave him a concerned look, but Daskin did not meet the otter's eyes. Shortly the otter stopped trying and merely pulled him onward, into the dark.

###

"Regent, I believe you've met our son, Daskin, before?" Lord Stirling's warm baritone resonated in the small breakfast room, its arched timbers and high ceilings crafted for acoustic perfection. Nevertheless, no amount of architecture could quite mask the hint of a bored monotone, nor the curious lilt of somebeast accustomed to portraying a certain amount of polite deference.

"I have. Good morning, Master Stirling." The marten regent leaned on the back of his chair and nodded amiably at Daskin as he entered, followed by Lady Stirling. "And Lady Stirling, always a pleasure."

"Indeed, Cassidy. And a pleasure to have you joining us this morning, as well." She paused, and savored the momentary silence. "Apologies for our slight tardiness, my lord," she continued, turning to address her husband. Her smile did not reach her eyes.

Lord Stirling waved a paw, dismissing the apology. He seated himself at the head of the table.

Daskin watched all this in frozen-mannered silence, and sat at the foot of the table. He pulled pieces from a buttered scone, and swallowed them, one by one. The table, sycamore polished almost to a mirrored finish, had been set with leaf-thin porcelain, and threads of gold curled across the surface of each plate, their pattern fluid and unique. There were water goblets carved from perfect crystal, too, and snow-bleached morning sunlight flooded in from five-foot windows on the east wall, at Felspoon's back.

With a careful claw, Daskin flicked a crumb from the knot of lace at his throat.

"Lady Stirling?" A squat and carefully dressed rat stood starched-straight in the doorway.

"What is it?" She frowned at the intrusion, sipping at her water.

"Merchants at the door—they're rather irate, and demanding an audience regarding, I regret to say, your new tariff policies. Shall I admit them, or shall I have Captain Corrigan show them out?"

Lady Stirling tilted her glass again, not drinking but rather concealing her moment of thought—Daskin could recognize the little bit of tightness in her shoulders as the slightest sign of fear. "Well, Fitch, how irate are they, precisely?"

The rat sniffed. "I fear for the state of the furniture, my lady."

"Then have Corrigan round up a few of the House Guard and by all means have them removed."

"Indeed, madam." Fitch disappeared.

Lord Stirling held his own goblet far too tightly. Daskin spotted it, and Lady Stirling did as well. "Angus. Let go of that poor goblet."

"I must say," he growled, "it is unnecessary—"

"—to remind them that their use of my ports _at all_ is at the pleasure of Stirling House? I know they are your _former_ associates, but do try to retain some dignity, darling." Her goblet clinked as she set it back on the table.

###

The quartet rushed through the dark, and the stirring of the foul air chilled fur damp with sweat. Daskin stumbled on, still in a haze, still clinging to Juniper's wrist. The otter wasn't looking at him, hadn't offered a word of reassurance. Daskin drew his cloak tighter around him to keep out the cool, but this only pulled the stinking bloodstain at his shoulder closer to his muzzle, and he retched, stumbling. The sour taste of acid filled his mouth, but he swallowed his disgust, letting the cloak billow out behind him as they chased the troupe ahead, lost in the distance and the shadow.

Around them, nothing. Ahead and behind, nothing. Daskin could hear Danaidh's grunts as they hurried, and even Fjord had been reduced to uncharacteristic silence.

_Are we even—are we going the right way? Are we lost? Will—_

Daskin found his rushing thoughts cut off by his own aching footpaws and, again, the smell of blood.

_Focus, just focus, on something, anything…_

And Shelton fell, bleeding and oozing between his paws, clutched over his stomach, and steel clashed again and again against steel, the panting and cries of their battle forming a rhythm all their own; this chaotic jumble of memory and invention struggled to resolve itself into a coherent past, a narrative, but all again was lost in metal and fear and _blood_, and Daskin again tripped, and Daskin again found himself pulled upright, pressing onward.

Step, step, step… one after another, and these at least had enough pattern for Daskin to lose himself, and a few precious seconds of peace passed… but again his heartbeat and rushing blood broke his concentration and brought him to painful consciousness. His cloak had wrapped around itself behind him, and begun to tug at his throat, and Daskin was struck by a sudden image of his own throat slashed open, spilling his blood as the mole's had been spilled: a gush, a few spurts, and then a gurgling pool on the ground.

Somehow, he wasn't horrified. Daskin remembered ice-cold water all around him, inhaling a half-breath of it, and that memory held no horror, either. There had been no _threat_, just the fleeting moments of danger and relief. There had been no consequence.

But now, there was Shelton. His enemy, dispatched at the paw of somebeasts he didn't know, who were his enemies just the same as Shelton had been… the stoat's guts slipping between paws and, seconds before that, a rush of blood from a mole's throat, a mole who he didn't know at all, tore at his conscience.

###

The small teapot rattled a bit as Daskin lifted it from its silver tray, as his wrist was not quite strong enough to hold it steady.

"Careful, Daskin." Lady Stirling reached out and supported the other side of the pot as he poured cocoa into little enamel mugs, threaded with the same gold as the plates. The scent of it filled his nose, murky and sweet; it warmed his paws through the pot. He passed a mug across the table to Regent Felspoon, who took it with a smile. The movements of pouring and passing cups formed a ritual of sorts, Daskin's careful focus on a performance of perfect, domestic grace.

Fitch reappeared in the doorway, and took a step into the room. "I do regret to again disturb you all, but the merchants have not taken 'no' for an answer particularly—" and here angry shouts could be heard from below, "—lightly."

"They're fighting with the Guard, Fitch?" Lord Stirling asked, eyes widened.

"Momentarily, sir." The clash of metal on metal sounded from downstairs, and a shout turned to a scream, then silence.

Daskin sipped his cocoa, and it was warm and sweet, just bitter enough. He swallowed.

A tall weasel stood in the doorway, and though his shirt had been ripped along the right sleeve and he panted heavily, there was no blood on him. "My lady." He bowed.

"Corrigan. What's happened?"

"They made trouble, attempted to force their way in to see you. We've taken care of it, but Fiske was killed in the struggle. As were two of the merchants."

"Thank you, Captain." Lady Stirling nodded, and the weasel departed.

"My lady, is there anything you require?"

"See that the foyer is properly cleaned, wouldn't you, Fitch?"

"Of course. I shall personally see to it, presently. Anything else?" Fitch cast his gaze across the breakfasting nobles.

"That will be all, I think," Lord Stirling said, and Fitch stepped out, closing the door behind him.

"Look less shocked," Lady Stirling said to… Daskin wasn't quite sure to whom… "they got what they came for."

Daskin took another nibble at his scone, and watched a hanging drop of molten chocolate quiver and then fall from the silver spout onto the tabletop. The morning had brought some excitement, but even then, he would have much preferred to stay in bed.

###

Fiske. Fiske had been a stoat, hadn't he? Daskin cast his thoughts back across the seasons, but couldn't quite put together an image of Fiske's face, even though the… stoat? …had been a member of his household. It didn't matter, did it? Surely, it didn't matter; he was a member of the Guard, he was young, or foolish, or something. Surely. But as Daskin tried to remember, mostly Fiske looked just like Shelton, with a strong jaw and his paws clamped over an oozing wound, standing between Daskin and harm.

_That's how to defend, right? Exchange off the attackers?_

And Daskin laughed, and cried, as they stumbled onward, finally reaching the troupe once more. They were safe, or whatever passed for safe in this place.

"Ector? Ith tha' you?"

"Yes, Juniper, we're all here. Unfortunately." Hector's long-suffering tone lacked his usual dramatic flair.

"Abou' Dath—Thilber, I think he'th… gone a liddle funny."

Hector gave Juniper a long, hard stare, and his gaze alighted on the dark stain at Daskin's shoulder. "What happened?"


	51. Mama, There's a Wolf at the Door

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 50. Mama, There's a Wolf At the Door  
**

_by Fjord  
_

After explaining everything to Hector, the troupe, plus one hare and hedgehog – _Hold the side of stoat and associated brutes, if you please. One hard dash across the noggin is quite enough for a lifetime._ – trudged along down the glowing passageway. The only other sound besides their footpaws was a whisper of a wind Fjord could not feel. It gave him the creeping sensation that certain living-impaired individuals of the Shelton and Co. variety might lurch out of the shadows at any given moment and drag them into the darkness.

Being a fellow of no supernatural inclinations, though, Fjord kept to the middle of the pack for purely logical reasons: Hector had left him behind once before, and his head was hurting too much to efficiently navigate the tunnels. If, of course, this positioning prevented some regrettable circumstance of the corpsified variety befalling his personage, so be it.

Still, the circumstances already had the bitter tang of blood-soaked solemnity. If he could get beasts talking, he might be able to limit the pondering – a dangerous pastime for any chap, let alone one whose thoughts were addled by trauma and turning toward the last words of a dying stoat, ghoulish shades keen on attacking Mary, and the strangled cries of a certain rat as he tried to loose Fjord's whip from about his throat. The fact that said rat had come close to snuffing it at the hare's paws only served to disquiet Fjord all the more.

"So, Dànaidh, you're a bit athletic, aren't you?" The fire dancer blurted out to the nearest beast.

"Aye. 'S in me job description."

"Right ho! Well... play any sports?"

"Boxin'."

"Anything of the non-'hit it till it stops moving' variety, wot?"

Dànaidh scratched at his snout and glanced up as if trying to recall something. "Fair paw at th' caber toss. Allus won that event in th' Games as a lad." Fjord's face scrunched up in confusion, and the hedgehog continued, "'Tis a sort o' sport where ye try t' toss a tree trunk tha's 'ad 'er branches stripped end-o'er-end."

"Ah, so that explains how you were able to lob that gangly rat fellow a fair few badger-lengths when you only had hold of his footclaws, eh?"

"S'pose. Is 'e th' one as broke 'is neck?"

"Believe so. Crickety crack and all that–"

"Would you _please_ be quiet?" Silver groaned.

"Tut, young Silver! Dashed rude to interrupt your elders. Wot's got your tail all afuzz?" Fjord asked, eager to involve more beasts in said conversation. Dànaidh's enthralling tales of Highland barbarism weren't helping to draw the topic away from places Fjord would rather not tread.

"You're a hypocrite," the ferret grumbled. "You tell off June for being a complete _tuilli_ about Envie, then you go and make light of the death of another beast." He sneered, then muttered just loud enough to hear, "_Go mbeadh cosa gloine fút agus go mbrise an ghloine!_"

The hedgehog whistled low as Fjord tried to work out what the kit had said. Highlander had never been a dialect the fire dancer had paid much attention to – the curse had something to do with glass legs, though.

"If'n yer mither 'eard what's been comin' out yer mouth, lad..."

"Well, she wouldn't, would she? Not when I'm stuck with you."

"Now, look here, you cheeky little pustule, I'm not–"

"Quiet!" Hector growled. "I hear something. Hare, get over here."

"'Hare' does happen to have a name, sah," Fjord said, crossing his arms and remaining planted in the same spot.

"Right now, 'Hare' is a walking set of ears, just listen."

The dancer considered humming in his head to spite the fox, but his tender noggin throbbed in protest. He tromped forward and tuned his ears to the fore.

_Shhh. Hushhh._

There! The sound of the wind he'd heard before. It was much closer now, and stronger. With it were tiny pops and clicks peppering the upper range of Fjord's hearing. "It sounds like... wings?"

"Do we go forward?" Thera asked.

"Can't very well go back," Fjord reasoned. "Might run into more of those chaps who were after Shelton. I don't fancy another brawl today, wot."

"Onward, then," Hector decided. "Gergreg, get to the front with Dànaidh and Fjord. Gergreg, you and June cover our backs."

They pressed on in the new configuration, the blue of the fungi growing brighter as it occupied more and more of the walls. The rustling sounds also grew more distinct, as did high-pitched chirrups as they approached the end of their tunnel and the entrance to some larger cavern.

"Looks like a sea o' th' blue 'shrooms," Dànaidh said. "Must be a carpet six thick out there."

They stepped through and Silver gasped. "Never mind the ground. Look up!"

Above them, mouse-sized creatures clung to high perches, clustered together, and swirled like dead leaves caught in a breeze. The nearest of these chittered at the intruders.

"What's this? What's this, this?"

"Landwalkers, walkers!"

"It was as the Prophet said, said!"

"Get Foehn and Zephyr, Zephyr." The names were picked up and spread as echoes throughout the high chamber.

"Might I suggest a brisk trot in the about face direction?" Fjord counseled.

"We can't go back," Hector replied. "You said so yourself."

The dancer's face soured, but the fox was right. He considered suggesting they run forward, but the field of fungi looked a little _too_ inviting – there were some body-shaped lumps out there.

"Praise be to the Fates, Fates!"

Fjord looked up, seeing two bats had disengaged from the now-silent pack and were floating down to them.

"We did not expect you to come through the waterfall entrance, but here you are, are."

"You were expecthing uth?" Juniper's brows knit together.

"Yes. Welcome to the Breezeway Colony. I am Zephyr, and this is Foehn. We care for the Prophet. Please, come, come."

"Sounds a bit dodgy if you ask me, not letting a chap know he's expected 'til he turns up, wot?"

"It was foretold," Foehn explained. "The Prophet has been awaiting the arrival of a party of landwalkers who carry the seed of peace since she came to us. Look at you, vermin and woodlanders together. You must be the ones of whom she spoke! Please, let us show you, you."

"Don't you want to know who we are?" Silver asked, nonplussed. "We could be raving axe murderers for all you know."

Zephyr shook his head, smiled at the ferret like the kit that he was, then replied matter-of-factly, "It was _foretold_, told."

O~O~O

Fjord stared in horrified fascination at the monstrosity set before them. Bathed in the florescent blue of the fungi that seemed to have found a hold on every pinch of soil within the small cavern off the larger bat roost, what could only be the Prophet hung beside a pile of pears, strawberries, apples, plums, and other assorted fruit. She had the face of a fox, but her colors – what the fire dancer could make of them in the peculiar light – seemed more akin to the Gergregs as pine martens. From her wickedly hooked footclaws to her stubby ears, she boasted the length of a badger, and the leathery wings connected to her shoulders might have enveloped a whole family of striped goliaths. Her eyes – bulbous, black protrusions covering half her face – appraised them each in turn.

Finally, the Prophet opened her maw, revealing a set of canines that looked ready to stab into somebeast's neck, and–

Fjord's stomach chose that moment to announce how thoroughly dissatisfied it was with the way its owner had treated it in recent times – filling it with unsavory foods and water, expelling its digestibles all over lake shores, allowing its near-pummeling in various sticky situations, and showing a general lack of regard for its wellbeing. The pungent aroma of the fruit after a supper of raw fish on the run was one slight too many. The gastric groan resounded through the cavern, crashing into the walls and bouncing back in a cacophony of protest.

Nobeast said anything for the length of time it took for a grimace to collect at the fire dancer's brow and trickle down to the ends of his quivering whiskers. Then, Silver began giggling, the high trill of youth surrounding them. This set the Gergregs to snickering, which fanned the spark of absurdity to an outright flame. The fire caught on Hector and Thera, a tenor guffaw and soprano titter filling out the upper range. Dànaidh worked his way up to a blaze slowly, starting with a chuckle that grew to an outright cackle, the curious bass tone adding a pleasant harmony to the din. Alastia tried to hold back, but was adding her own nasal 'heehe-mrow' before long, followed closely by Juniper's baritone, then, even the bats and the Prophet. Fjord couldn't help it, he laughed, too.

All of the fear, worry, joy, confusion, rage, frustration, anguish, all of it and more, rushed out in great brays laughter that drove the hare to his knees. Fjord clutched his stomach and managed to choke out a few words. "I say... I say, you winged fellows... wouldn't have a spot... a spot of bally tuck for a few famished chaps and chappesses, eh?"

After another minute, the collective convulsion relaxed, and they began wiping their tears away. Fjord realized with a start as he rubbed at his puffed up eyes that some of that laughter had been sobs. It was the good sort of cry, though, the type that everybeast needs to keep from going bonkers and stabbing every other beast around him when the world has decided that a solid kick in the teeth is necessary for a bit of character growth. Well on his way to growing an entirely new character to deal with this nonsense – perhaps Juniper had the right idea – the fire dancer turned with the others to face their strange situation.

"Please, my friends," the Prophet said, her voice a rich alto, so unlike the reedy falsettos of the little bats who had guided them. She motioned to the fruit, a goofy grin fixed on her face – perhaps she wasn't so horrifying after all. "We'll speak when you've had your fill."

As the troupe set upon the pile, the only sounds gnashing teeth and slurping tongues, Fjord let his eyes linger on Silver a moment, the kit calling to mind the lessons that Sylvi had taught him as a leveret.

Glancing sideways at the great bat as she watched them, the fire dancer could hear Sylvi explaining, as she had done hundreds of times, that each beast had a dance that defined him. He could take up another style if the situation called for it, of course, but he always reverted back to his Soul Beat.

Fjord had once pointed out that it was a very silly play on words, and spent the next two days learning just how dangerous fire-juggling could be when there wasn't a conveniently placed bucket of water about.

_Perilous gel, old Sylvi... or at least the sort to place another beastie in peril._ Fjord wasn't certain if one was much better than the other, all things considered. The lesson had been well learned, though – he had never again broached the subject of 'witty' wording to Sylvi or any other beast. The thought still pained his older scars. _But where was I brooding along? Ah, yes..._

_Take this Prophet here, Fj,_ Sylvi would say. _She's the sort who would dance a waltz... were a great hulking... thingummy so inclined. She follows a slow, even movement that demands attention to the rhythm and steps, but one that allows her the freedom to flow as she would across the floor. An ordered chaos, wot. These little bats, on the other paw... Well, they're the sort to tap. Nice staccato beats that click and scrape faster than your eye can catch, I reckon. They have to be quick, though, Fj. Little things like them, they're always trying outrun the wolves at their heels._

The wolves... Sylvi's favored threat.

_'Can't wait. Can't stay still or the wolves will get you, eh?'_ Sylvi's voice whispered from twenty seasons past. _'You have to be better than. Stronger than. Faster than. Because not all the wolves wear their coats as they should, my darling. Some of the wolves come with a friendly smile and a kind word to lure you out of the fold.'_

'Is Father a wolf, Mum?' a leveret younger than Silver had asked. _'Grannie Tallent said–'_

'Never you mind what that old harpy said, wot!' Sylvi had growled. Then, she had relented, pressing his small head to her bosom and stroking his ears. _'No, Fj. It's just that... that sometimes even good beasts have to become wolves for a little bit to survive.'_

And here he sat dining with a whole bushel of wolves. Hector, for all his assurances that he had their best interests at heart, had run from them. The rest of the vermin in the troupe hung on his every word, the pack following its alpha. Dànaidh, a wolf by necessity rather than design, was hardly much consolation with his unexpected bouts of cruelty. Juniper, a friendly fellow when the scene moved him... but what happened when the curtain fell and the costume came off? He was perhaps the most terrifying wolf of all because he had no idea of his own nature. Then there was Silver. Fjord hoped that so young a creature might be innocent, but how could he trust the kit when he wasn't even certain of the ferret's name? Silver-Daskin was more mysterious than the Prophet. At least the hare had a decent grasp of the sort of smoke and mirrors a 'seer' would employ.

As if sensing the silent slight within the dancer's musings, the Prophet spoke once more. "Welcome, my friends. My name is Duskwatcher, and it fills me with joy to see you here now. I worried you wouldn't reach me in time."

"In time for wot, ma'am?" the hare piped up. Yes, here was the enigmatic tone, that curious accent that hinted at far off lands. _Feed into the mystery, but nothing too definite. No, ma'am! Let us foolish chaps fill in the blanks ourselves. We're ever so much better at that than you, wot. And every good lupine charlatan knows it._

"I don't know." Duskwatcher shook her head, mouth twitching into a frown. "I can only catch glimmers now – fireflies at the corner of my eye, but when I look more closely..."

"Duskwatcher is trying her best," Foehn explained. "But she says there's a veil over her vision, vision."

"It makes the future uncertain, tain," Zephyr added.

"You do have the stooges trained well, don't you?" It took a moment for Fjord to realize that the harsh words had come from his own mouth. He clapped a paw over his muzzle far too late. Dànaidh cast him a disparaging glance and Juniper frowned. Silver, the Gergregs, and Hector, at least, looked as though they agreed with the sentiment if not the tactless delivery. There was a giant bat before them and possibly hundreds at their backs. Not the best time to be making snide comments.

"Er... that is to say... Ehem! So, y-you're having trouble seeing. Have you considered calling on an ophthalmologist? I understand those chaps are all the rage at the moment, wot. Can't say I've had the pleasure myself, but my littlest brother, Pyry, had a–"

"Fjord?" Hector interrupted.

"Yes?"

"Shut up."

"Quite right." However silly it all was, ruining a fellow performer's show was bad form – _Common courtesy to let a chappess have her say._ "Sorry, ma'am, do go... on...?" Fjord trailed off as his gaze settled on prophet once more.

Duskwatcher had disappeared beneath her massive wings, her whole body trembling.

Fjord exchanged worried glances with the members of the troupe, then looked to Foehn and Zephyr. But the little bats were staring at the prophet with such unabashed awe, that the hare had to look away. He felt like a voyeur here, and not the good sort.

All at once, Duskwatcher froze. Then, her wings shot out, the wind they created buffeting the troupe and causing Silver to trip backward. Fjord snatched the kit's shirt collar before he could fall. The ferret looked up at him, his face reflecting the question the hare wanted to ask himself: 'What's this crazybeast on about?'

It would have been nice to see the face reflecting a few other things, thanks being chief among them – a simple 'Oh, I say, old top! Smashing job of saving my bally neck in the river. And d'you know, I'm feeling downright topping wot with you saving me a corker of a headache just now.' Perhaps not those exact words, but something to the effect. A gallant and generous sort, Fjord had yet to broach the topic of the ferret's ingratitude.

Duskwatcher opening her maw a moment later swept all thoughts of unappreciative little pustules from his mind. The bat spoke in a low, rasping voice that raised every hair along the nape of Fjord's neck. He shifted so that he held Silver in front of him.

"_Your paths are entangled, your choices related.  
Division of purpose will lead you to waver;  
together, united, your wits concentrated,  
the enemy's shadow may fall in your favor.  
Its claws ever sharpen, its purpose revealing  
as eyes turn to heights of rubedinous glory.  
The emblem of silver is rose from its veiling,  
our future imperiled by yesteryear's story.  
Your ears must attend and your blood must be fired;  
your paws must be swift, for this foe is infernal.  
Return to the refuge where peace was desired;  
in ye lies the future of ages - of Redwall._"

The prophet slumped as the last word slithered through her lips.

"Eee! We're part of a prophecy!" The delighted squeal jolted Fjord, forcing him to release both Silver and a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. He looked around at June whose undamaged eye had disappeared in a wrinkle of joy.

"By Corinth's quills, we are," Dànaidh agreed, touching a paw to his headspikes. "I've ne'er 'eard one tol' b'fore me. What an honor."

"I'm going to die!" Alastia lamented. "The prettiest beast _always_ gets killed first in prophecy stories."

"Can I have your necklace, then?" Gergreg asked.

"Think we could stuff you for a prop?" Gergreg added, ever practical.

"I highly doubt you'll need to be worrying on that account, miss." Fjord's mouth took another foray through the lands of Poor and Judgment. "I'm afraid a crink in your tail rather disqualifies you as our woe begot beauty, eh?"

"Well, it doesn't matter anyway," Silver intervened before the wildcat could set her claws to work on the hare. "It's rubbish." He stared up at Fjord, his voice becoming much smaller, much more suited to his size. "Right?"

The fire dancer gulped, stole a glance at Duskwatcher, then nodded. "Yes, of course. Rubbish with a capital R, wot! Rubbier rubbish I never did hear."

By that time, Foehn and Zephyr had come out of their euphoria-induced comas enough to tend to the larger bat who was coming around, wings flopping as she tried to gather them to her chest.

"Please," the prophet murmured. "Please, calm down."

"Says the one who stirred the pike-infested lake," Hector grumbled. He was trying to extract himself from Juniper's stranglehold hug. Even burned, half-blind, sleep-deprived, and recent witness to a half a dozen deaths, the otter bounced on the tips of his footclaws as if the bat had delivered her ominous pronouncement with the promise of tea and crumpets to follow.

_Not that a spot of tea or crumpets would go amiss._ The fruit had taken the edge off of Fjord's hunger, but the beast in his belly would be demanding something more substantial soon.

"Juniper, _let go_!" the fox snarled. He grasped the charred remains of the otter's paws and ripped them off. Juniper's shriek sobered everybeast as it hit the walls and rebounded, a hundred fractured Junipers crying back at the original. "Now listen here, my lady," Hector growled at Duskwatcher, "I don't know what sort of game you're playing at, but–"

"Duskwatcher is not playing games, you fool, fool!"

"–we're not a bunch of wide-eyed kits–"

"Dinnae ye take that t' heart, Silver."

"–who can't tell a gold from a bronze coin. And–"

"Actually, Gergreg's colorblind."

"– if you think that spewing your magical words at us is going to make us jump like a holt of trained otters–"

"Oy!"

"–then you've another think coming, my lady. And shut up the lot of you!"

Fjord had opened his mouth to add to the string of interruptions, but snapped it shut with a _click_ when the fox turned on them, teeth bared.

"You're either a lunatic or a con," Hector continued, directing his ire back at the prophet. "I don't know what you're trying to get out of this, but there's no such thing as prophecies or seers any more. Stick to your winged minions, my lady. You should know better than to try to play a band of players. We're leaving."

"You're free to go, my friends." Duskwatcher's face looked ancient, the blue glow of the fungi carving deep shadows in every wrinkle. Her tone held no malice or deceit, only exhaustion. "I have delivered the message. I fear it is you who must decide what to do with it. Zephyr and Foehn will guide you."

"Hmph!" Fjord didn't know who all had expressed the sentiment, but Hector wasn't alone.

The little bats glared at troupe as they hopped past and glided back down the passage. Everybeast began shuffling out, but the hare hung back, watching the figures trail off. It was a straight passage for some way. He could afford a moment. "Something else you'd like to say, friend?" Duskwatcher inquired. "Or maybe a snack for your journey?" She nodded to the fruit.

"No, thank you. I just... well, I suppose I wanted to ask: Doesn't it bother you that Hector called you a stark raving loony? I mean, like he said, it's either that or your act is wearing a bit thin these days, wot. All these new scientist thingummies telling us the Fates aren't real, never were. Every other week a story in the papers about some fellow discovering wot makes the world tick and tock. Really, Ms. Duskwatcher, it's time for a new angle, eh? You might be able to fool chaps like Dàni and June, but... well... They're not exactly the brightest flames in the fire."

The bat considered him for a moment, then revealed her prominent teeth in a not-entirely-friendly smile. The fire dancer felt a chill slink down his spine and curl around his stomach. Had he been hungry? That seemed absurd now. "In my life, friend, I have been unfortunate enough for this 'act' to always be right. 'Stark raving loony' is certainly not the worst I've ever heard. But you run along now. It does scare me something bad to be alone with you."

"I-I scare _you_?" Fjord couldn't help a snort, then he puffed up his chest and buffed the claws of one paw on the fading blue symbols painted there. "My wife _has_ called me terrifyingly handsome. It's all in the ears, don'cha know?"

The prophet cocked her head to one side, an odd gesture when performed upside down. "Not the ears... I see in my mind the image of a snake when I look at you, friend. Does it mean something to you?" A beat. "And who's in the room at the Abbey? What does Juniper's paw have to do with anything? How did you know it was Dittany's blood on Mary's letter? And... why did you leave Sylvi crying under the big oak? If you'd just held her, she might–"

"_Stop it!_" The hare felt his heart beating out a harsh rhythm against his ribs. Duskwatcher's eyes had narrowed to obsidian slits. They remained silent for five agonizing seconds, then, Fjord turned tail and fled.

He really needed to find a better way to end these less-than-pleasant encounters.

O~O~O

_**Please Note**: Duskwatcher's prophecy was written by Shelton's author. He was kind enough to assist me with his wonderful poetry, and for that I am truly grateful._


	52. Like a Stone

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 51. Like a Stone  
**

_by Shandi  
_

Tristram's home was one of the largest in Rillrock, but that wasn't saying much. Still, he had a couple of spare bedrooms, and he insisted on Shandi using one of them. The squirrel sat on the bed, running her paws over the soft, floral-patterned quilt with a faint tint of disgust in her eyes. One of Belette's, she was told. Other than the quilt, the house bore all the markings of a middle-aged bachelor's home. Little to no thought had been put into the décor. Shandi found she much preferred this to the anal-retentive nightmare of her own home in Moston. The entire city was built in the treetops, so it didn't get many visitors apart from squirrels and the occasional bird. What did it matter how presentable her room looked?

Shandi clenched her paws into tight fists, her claws piercing the innocent counterpane. What could her family be doing now? Her mind wandered through various possible scenarios, none of them particularly pleasant. Surely Linnet, at least, would be none the wiser. Given the sickening amount of praise dolloped over her pretty little prodigious head, Shandi assumed that Clove and Willa wouldn't drag her into a plot so...so...The squirrel's ears drooped.

There were no words, even within Shandi's colorful arsenal, fit to describe it.

With all the chaos surrounding their arrival at Rillrock, Shandi had so far managed to avoid relaying to Tristram the events of the night of the abbess's murder. She hoped perhaps he would just forget about it. An incredibly vain and silly hope, to be sure, but she hoped it just the same.

A knock, followed by Tristram's voice, caused a wave of inexplicable dread to wash over her.

"Shandi? We're all meeting at the inn for lunch. Care to join us?"

"Only if ye actually let me eat this time," Shandi muttered.

"What was that?"

"I said aye!" she called back.

Hunger and dread were never a good combination. Overall, Shandi preferred dread.

~

No, scratch that, she definitely preferred hunger. Definitely hunger a million times over.

Tristram had taken her to a private parlor at the Goodlibeast Inn, where she was shocked to find not only Vikraja and Dominic—with Ella sound asleep in a sling across his chest—had been invited for lunch, but also an odd assortment of beasts. Tristram had introduced them before lunch.

"Horace, but you already knew that," the badger rumbled, smiling.

"Dergruf, ex-Guosim, at your service," a particularly scruffy shrew said with a bow.

"Aloysius Sable," a marten drawled, inspecting his claws with a permanent expression of deepest boredom on his face.

"Gormlaith Conmara." A regal ferret lady merely inclined her head, paws folded across her lean torso.

"Good afternoon, sir and madams," a decidedly overenthusiastic mouse beamed. "Penelope Arganbright. I am most pleased to make your acq—"

"While we're young, Penny," Gormlaith growled.

They heard the last member of their party before they saw her. A series of ominous tinkles and clinks sounded, and an old raven stepped out of the shadows. Her plumage had faded to a dull, dark grey in places, and she had a fair few feathers missing. A pair of leg bracelets with shells and beads and all manner of detritus were clearly the source of the noise, and she wore a pouch around her neck, as well as a yellow shawl draped over her head. Shandi couldn't help but take a step backward at the sight of her.

"Xenera," she said simply, giving a bird's best attempt at a smile. "Wandering 'seer' by day, Sentinel spy by night, don't you know."

Ollie brought them lunch, and they all tucked in, crammed as they were around a round table (with the exception of Xenera, who perched upon a bench in the corner). Shandi sat wedged between Vikraja and Gormlaith. Dominic, seated on Vikraja's right, kept giving Dergruf disapproving looks whenever the shrew moved next to him and jostled a still mercifully sleeping Ella.

Shandi sincerely hoped the little whelp would stay asleep. Demitri was annoying enough, but if she had to deal with two of them?

The squirrel furrowed her brow, looking up from her half-demolished plate. "Trist, where's Demitri?"

Tristram turned from a discussion he was having with Aloysius and their eyes met across the table. "He's been staying with the Alder family. I've sent Oakey to fetch him, since this meeting concerns him too."

"Meeting?" Shandi said, her heart sinking.

"Aye..." Tristram said, pausing to take a bite out of his bit of crusty bread before adding thickly, "This is Rillrock's town council, otherwise known as the Sentinel leaders, and we need your help piecing together what happened the night Abbess Dittany was killed."

Dominic picked that precise moment to choke on his tea, coughing into his plate of grilled trout which he'd been steadily drowning in tomato sauce. Vikraja slapped him hard on the back. Ella gave a drowsy zheep but snuggled down deeper into her sling.

Shandi was expecting Dominic to come up with some defensive quip as usual, but he didn't. Perhaps it was because he'd just confused his stomach with his lungs. The squirrel opened her mouth, but she, too, had no response. Instead, she reached for another pasty and took aim for her open maw.

When they had finished lunch and were all settling back in their chairs with little satisfied groans, Tristram clapped his paws for silence.

"Right, down to business. I call to order this meeting of the Sentinel Council. Are all members present and accounted for?"

Aloysius rolled his eyes at the pointless formality. "You _know_ we are, Tristram."

"Good, good," Tristram said, ignoring the marten. "Well, I won't beat around the bush; there's one major reason I called this meeting today, and it'd be best if we got right down to it. We do not know the precise details of Abbess Dittany's death or the explosion that shook the abbey. We've heard accounts from our various spies planted at Redwall, but there are crucial details still missing, including who committed these acts and why.

"Dominic," he said, turning to face the weasel, who quickly set down his teacup. "You are suspected of murdering the abbess. Do y' know why?"

"Because!" Dominic said. "They're all prejudiced nutjobs!"

Tristram smiled patiently. "Y' made quite a scene with the infirmary sisters."

"There wouldn't have been any scene if they hadn't kept stealing Ella away from me," Dominic argued.

"Y' killed an otter." The squirrel's smile dissolved as quickly as it had materialized.

"No I didn't!" Dominic hissed.

Shandi's eyes widened. Dominic, a killer? How was that even possible? All that blood...If he had done it, he was probably still haunted by nightmares of the mess it must've made on him.

"One of our spies saw you in the hallway when it happened."

Dominic was looking distinctly cornered. "Oh? And did they see the brute start chasing me for no reason? Did they see those infirmary hags drug me and whisk Ella away, _twice_? Who knows what could've happened to her all that time! You say all this stuff about being a father, well, I'd like to see how _you'd_ react if your daughter was kidnapped before your eyes!"

Tristram held up a paw. "Easy. I'm trying to find the truth, not condemn you."

"Really," Dominic snorted. "Could've had me fooled."

"At least he's not pretending the world's out to get him because of his species," Gormlaith muttered, feigning a yawn. "A bit overdone these days if you ask me."

"Overdone because it's true! And that's another thing! Why do you all pretend to be so...so wonderfully pleasant with each other all the time? You can't seriously be that nice and happy." He looked pointedly at the vermin members of the council.

"You're right," said Aloysius. "We're not."

"We are all together now," Penelope added, "but that doesn't mean we've forgotten where we came from."

"What the sugary mouse means, really," Xenera said, hopping down from her perch with a slight wince and waddling slowly toward the table, "is that we do argue. A lot. Penny just likes to make everything sound sweet, bless her."

"How haven't you killed each other yet, though?" Vikraja wanted to know.

"I suppose..." Gormlaith tapped a claw against one of her handsome cheeks. "Because we don't dance around the issues or make half-hearted attempts at solving them."

"Like the treaty," Aloysius cut in.

"Hold hard now," Dergruf objected. "The treaty may have been flimsier'n my great auntie's tattered ol' headband, but still 'twas done for the right reasons."

"It's true, Dittany did pour her heart and soul into that treaty..." said Penny sadly.

"But it was rushed into without regard for every party involved," Gormlaith said significantly.

"Like the vermin," Shandi blurted out.

Everybeast turned to look at her, and Shandi fully expected to be scolded for her careless choice of words. Surprisingly, the council members all nodded, looking thoughtful.

"That's right, Shandi," said Tristram. "But really, it's everybeast. The problem with the treaty was that it tried to force a specific outcome without actually solving any of the issues that caused the constant warring in the first place."

"Eh, how so?" Shandi asked, putting down her mug of ale. Most of what Tristram had said had gone right over her head.

"Think of it this way," Tristram explained. "Imagine two Dibbuns are fighting over some candied chestnuts, and an adult walks in on them. Do y' think the Dibbuns are going to stop fighting altogether and be friends if the adult just says, 'Hey, stop fighting!'?"

"But that's...what they always say," Shandi snorted.

Tristram laughed. "Yes, adults generally can't find the appropriate amount of energy to deal with Dibbuns, it's true. But how would that make y' feel if you were one of the Dibbuns?"

"Eh, well..." The squirrel closed an eye and squinched up her pudgy face in thought. "I guess if'n I'd stolen the candied chestnuts or something, I'd feel pretty good. But if I'd had them stolen from me, I'd kick the other Dibbun's arse as soon as the adult left the room again."

Several chuckles sounded, Tristram's the loudest of all. "Exactly. Anybeast can just tell somebeast to stop fighting. It's easy. It's _lazy_. What we're trying to do, and what we still try to do every day, is to get to the root of the problems, because, in our experience, that is the only thing that's made any sort of progress.

"And speaking of getting to the root of problems, I think we've gone a bit off-topic. Vikraja, y' were sent out by the Skipper to pursue the suspects, correct?"

The lizard's blue tongue slithered in and out several times before she spoke. "Yez."

"And y' were offered a reward of some kind?"

"Of courze. Why elze would I be rizking my neck out here when I could be zelling my goodz inztead?"

"I heard y' got in trouble for trying to steal the Sword of Martin."

"Oh, thiz?" Vikraja said calmly, though Shandi noticed her tongue was flickering a bit faster. "Thiz iz juzt a replica."

Tristram nodded, his expression annoyingly unfathomable. "Most interesting of all the reports I heard about y', though, are these 'firesticks,' or whatever they're called. The ones that blew up the bell tower and the gatehouse. I heard they came from your cart..."

"Lzzt!" Vikraja hissed, her tongue flickering wildly. "Thoze actorz were the onez uzing them. They told me they knew what they were doing! It waz not my fault at all. They're the onez you should be queztioning."

"We will when they come in contact with our spies at Salamandastron," said Tristram. "Thanks, Vikraja, that will do for now. Which brings us to Shandi."

The squirrel sank low in her chair, wanting nothing more than to slither under the table and crawl out the door. Tristram's dark eyes bored into hers from across the table.

"I must say, I was shocked when Nanain told me y' were fleeing Redwall with Demitri. I thought she'd made a mistake."

Shandi said nothing, but took another gulp of ale. She reached for the pitcher and poured herself another glass. Gormlaith stayed her paw as she made to lift her mug.

"This is a meeting, not a party," the ferret lady murmured. "Get drunk after you've answered our questions."

"Or not at all," Tristram said disapprovingly. Dominic nodded in agreement, eyeing the pitcher with a sort of nervous distrust.

Shandi scowled and slammed the mug down on the table, her temper flaring. "Fine! Let's get on with it then. Well? Ye said ye had questions, so ask 'em already!"

"I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't speak to Tristram like that," Horace growled. "Or any of the council, for that matter."

"It's fine, Horace," said Tristram curtly. "Shandi Fen...with all the fire and stubbornness of your mother..." He chuckled. "But that's beside the point. At first I thought we'd made a mistake, bringing y' in. But then, the reports came in. Y' fled the scene. Why?"

"I...Half the abbey was blown up, thanks to Vikraja," Shandi snarled.

Unsurprisingly, the monitor came on the defensive. "Excuze me, but I have already zaid it was thoze actorz who zet off my fireztickz, not me. And anyway, I zaw you coming out of the abbey building after the explosion, looking rather zuzpiciouz indeed." She sniffed imperiously, looking down her scaly snout at Shandi.

"Oh really? Was that before or after ye were stealing that sword? I can't quite recall..." Shandi sneered.

"Oh for Dark Forest's sake, quit avoiding the questions," Aloysius said in a huff. "And woodlanders call vermin a pack of liars, while you sit there, trying to pin everything on Vikraja..."

"That'll do, Alo," Tristram warned.

Shandi seethed. She noticed the jumped-up fop of a marten hadn't said anything about Dominic avoiding answering _his_ questions. Oh yes, they'd obviously made _great_ strides in overcoming their prejudices, great strides _indeed_...

"Just," Tristram said, holding up a paw as Shandi opened her mouth to give Aloysius a piece of her mind, "try and answer my questions as best y' can, Shandi. Were y' in the abbey building at the time of the abbess's death?"

Shandi swallowed. "Yes."

She couldn't lie about that, not since Vikraja had already claimed to have seen her. Still, she cringed, knowing Tristram's next question before it tumbled readily from his lips.

"Why?"

Why? Why not? Was a beast not allowed to be in the abbey building for a reason other than murdering the abbess?

"I was...hungry," Shandi said.

A stupid lie, but the bastards had to believe it. Seeing as most of them probably carried the notion in their empty heads that beasts like her were constantly hungry anyway. She heard Gormlaith give the tiniest of snorts next to her, and the sudden desire to physically wipe the smirk off the ferret's face was nearly unbearable.

"Shandi," Tristram sighed.

"What?" she barked, her head snapping back in his direction.

Blood pounded white-hot through her veins, and her face burned. An odd prickling sensation played at the corners of her eyes. She grit her teeth, staring straight at Tristram's face, as if any movement or blink would betray her.

The words came slowly, a hint above a whisper. "Did your mother have something to do with this?"

_Yes,_ her mind screamed. Oh, but were it that simple! Shandi looked around at all the expectant faces. What would happen to her if the truth came out? Not only that, what would happen to her entire tribe? Surely not everybeast would understand that the blame lay in only a pawful, but all would be condemned for not attempting to stop it. Even Linnet, who, although she was a tremendous pain in the tail, most likely had nothing to do with it. Shandi envisioned her younger sister being thrown, screaming, into a dark dungeon to rot for the rest of her days, clapped in irons. All because she, Shandi, couldn't keep her mouth shut.

"No," she said, her voice quavering.

"Shandi, you can tell the truth, it's all right," Tristram said.

No, it wasn't all right. Maybe she could tell Tristram eventually, but not everybeast else. Especially Aloysius and Gormlaith, who automatically seemed to have something against her.

"I am telling the truth!" she half-shouted, half-sobbed.

"Perhaps we should pick this up later," said Penny gently, clearly in tune with Shandi's distress.

Tristram said something, and Vikraja and Dominic and a few of the council members said some other things, but as they weren't questions directed at her, Shandi was no longer listening. She spent the remainder of the meeting glaring intently at a burn mark on the table, breathing hard through her nostrils.

Gradually the room emptied around her. Dominic was one of the first to leave, but Vikraja hung back.

"Lizzen..." she began, but when Shandi didn't look up or acknowledge her in any way, the lizard lost her nerve, shrugged, and left. Tristram patted her awkwardly on the head as he passed, and a tear fell with a faint _plop_ into her ale. As the door snapped shut behind Tristram, Shandi was finally alone.

She stared resolutely at her mug for what felt like several minutes, then downed it in one go, refilling it until everything went dull around the edges.


	53. Arms Wide Open

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 52. Arms Wide Open  
**

_by Aya  
_

The sharp tang of combustion filled Aya's nostrils still, causing her to choke and cough as she rose unsteadily to a standing position with an assisting paw from Cecil. She blinked, trying to erase the images that felt seared into her senses.  
A trail of smoke careening skyward.  
Shelton, teetering on the edge of the hole.  
An explosion of searing light, green flashes startlingly vivid amidst the crushing weight of darkness descending unnaturally.  
And then, silence.  
Stillness.  
Dust.

Aya coughed until she retched, trying frantically to clear the clinging particles from her airways as she took stock of the situation.

_He fell in. Of all the bloody luck..._

"We've got to get down fast," Aya muttered for Cecil's benefit, "but quietly. They might be right under us, and Shelton's fall might have alerted them."

"I understand," Cecil whispered back, "I'll look for some vines."

The two squirrels managed to locate an oak tree twined about with thick-stemmed ivy. A few tugs, a deft cut or two, and the ivy tendrils were free. The operation took longer than Aya had hoped, but it was the only way to ensure a steady descent.

"I'll go first, Miss Aya," Cecil said, grasping the vine as Aya finished tying it off to a sturdy oak. "Who knows what we will encounter down there?"

"Volunteering to take the first punch, are you?" Aya replied. "Alright then, it's your own head. Just be quick about it."

Aya waited until Cecil's head had disappeared below ground-level before turning, gripping the vine, and descending tail-first into the waiting gloom. Carefully she picked her way down the talus, playing out the slack with her paws as she peered backwards over her shoulder. It soon proved an exercise in futility, as the inky darkness prevented her even from seeing Cecil's form silhouetted against the gloom below. Her footpaws slid gently on the soft soil, occasionally sending a rock rolling. The only smells were the lingering odor of the starburst and the mouldy scent of disturbed earth. From below, Aya could hear Cecil humming ever so softly.

The vine snapped.

Flailing wildly in a vain attempt to regain her balance, Aya spun and toppled down the slope.

_Tongue in, shut teeth! Arms out, paws grabbing, bend legs slightly!_

Aya barely had time to start implementing the ingrained precautions in case of a fall from a tree when she thudded into Cecil, the impact knocking the wind out of both of them. They fell together, lost in the darkness, until an abrupt shift in the direction of the slope sent them rolling a few feet on what had to be the floor of the cavern. Aya curled up and shielded her head as best she could against the rush of stones and earth rolling down behind her, wincing and yelping in pain as they pinged off her shoulders and skull.

"Are you unharmed, Miss Aya?"

Aya briefly considered answering Cecil's inquiry in a way that would involve inarticulate sounds, but decided against it on the principle that it hurt too much to move fast right then.

"I'll live," she replied as she slowly unburied herself from the light covering of debris that had rained down upon her. "Can you see anything?"

"No, it's too dark, but there seems to be slightly less darkness in one direction," Cecil responded.

Aya heard a slight twang as he removed a rock from the sound bowl of his lute, helping her locate him in relation to her current position. After closing her eyes for a few moments she opened them again, and could just make out the direction Cecil must be referring to. She unfastened her sling from her belt and slipped a rock in, ready for what might come

"Let's get on with it, then. We've got to catch up."

A few minutes of careful treading over rocks and past debris brought ever-increasing levels of light. As they traveled closer, the light was revealed as emanating from large flabby-looking mushrooms lining the passageway that led away from the cavern their descent had placed them in. As they got closer, Aya investigated one of the fungus growths out of pure culinary interest, but a sniff and a pinch revealed there was little to no edible value to these particular wonders of mycology. Picking them also seemed to negate whatever light-giving value they had. Aya shrugged and moved on.

The passageway continued an inestimable distance, the mushrooms providing plenty of light to see by. Aya felt her bruised shoulders threatening to cramp from the strain of being constantly on alert, but the raging headache that accompanied the bruises prevented any notion of relaxation. Besides, there was something wrong with the smell coming from up ahead. Too metallic, too much tang.

It smelled like blood had been spilled.

Aya broke into a slightly faster lope, wincing as she did. Cecil matched her pace, only to stop abruptly at the tableau laid out before them. Aya stood still as well, shock splashed across her face.

_So much blood..._

Rat, mole, stoat... it was almost difficult to tell which body was which as they lay sprawled in the rictus of death, the blood-soaked ground providing mute testament to the brutality and finality of their wounds. Aya felt the bile rising in her throat, only to have it retreat in the rising tide of anger that overtook her.

"It's Shelton," Cecil said, his voice shaking slightly. "He's dead."

Aya walked over and dropped to a knee next to the stoat's body, willing her paw to stop trembling as she closed the sightless eyes that stared with fixed intensity at a point far, far off in the distance.

_I don't know why you came with us, but you didn't deserve this, stoat._

"We don't have time to bury him," Aya said as she stood upright once more, "the blood is barely dry. We have to continue on."

Cecil seemed unable to tear his gaze from the stoat's body, his paws working convulsively as he muttered to himself too quietly for Aya to hear.

"Cecil."

Aya stooped and grabbed a spear that was not encumbered with a body around it before turning and narrowing her eyes at the bard.

"We have to go. There's already been one murder; now they have Shelton's blood on their heads as well."

Mutely, the male squirrel turned away from the scene of the massacre. Aya nodded, then replaced her sling in her belt and hefted the spear. The two took off down the tunnels once more, choosing the path that showed clearly the unmistakable print of a hare's footpaw.

_What happened back there? Dead rats and a dead mole, and Shelton... and none of the troupe dead._

It almost made her pause, this sudden show of martial prowess on the part of the troupe. Was it really the best plan of attack, to rush in and attempt to apprehend a group of suspected and now-proven killers with only herself and Cecil to rely on?

_I can't give up now. It's just not right... the bloody Abbess is dead, Shelton's dead, and they've got to pay! And I'm so close to getting my shop -_

Aya shook her head to ward away day-dreams of days spent baking and cooking in the safety and comfort of her own shop. The wince of pain that accompanied the motion served to focus her even more firmly on the task at hand: taking the fleeing actors by surprise.

_Just need to keep them on the edge, not give them a chance to get around us..._

Her swiveling ears caught the sound of muffled voices up ahead. With a paw to her lips, Aya gestured to Cecil to draw his dagger -_Knife, whatever!_- and rigged a stone into her sling before settling the spear into a comfortable but adaptable hold in her off-paw.

Her heart started beating faster in her chest, and she felt her ears pulsing in time with the beat as her breathing grew more shallow. Now was the time to fight for what she wanted. A few more steps, and the troupe was visible around a slight turn in the tunnels. They didn't appear to be taking any notice of what was behind them. That was about to change.

"Hold there, you lot!" the squirrel shouted as she launched the rock at what she hoped was the hedgepig's head. She looped the sling around her wrist and grasped the spear in both paws.

"Paws where I can see them!"


	54. Stars, Hide Your Fires

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 53. Stars, Hide Your Fires  
**

_by Dànaidh_

The stone Aya threw blindly at Dànaidh sailed through the darkened cavern and struck Juniper on a burned paw with a soft _thwack._ The otter soared off his footpaws with a yap that threatened to bring the ceiling down on their heads, releasing his hold on Daskin's paw and clutching his wounded appendage.

_"YoooooooooW!"_ he cried.

Hector grimaced at the otter. "What is it now, June?"

"He's lost it," said Gergreg.

"Might as well put him down," Gergreg said.

"Aaaaaaahhhwwww…" Juniper's moaning disappeared into a sudden shower of tears. He babbled and garbled in snot-laden heaves as he held his paw like a dead kit to his chest.

"He's girn oan somethin'," Dànaidh said, twisting a digit in his ear.

"What's wrong with you, June?" Daskin asked, looking up at the weeping otter.

Juniper's lips bubbled as he whispered, "Mah pfaw."

"His _what?"_ Fjord asked.

"He said 'fall'," Daskin said, shrugging. "I don't know."

"Gob shite, are ye all daft?" Dànaidh shouted. "We barely started spring."

"Pfaw! Pfaw!" Juniper bellowed. "Some'ing hih mah PFAW!"

"Cor, lookit th' size ay his paw!" Dànaidh said, pointing. "June, did ye ken yer paw's huge?"

"Come to think of it, it _is_ rather swollen looking," Fjord said.

"Not another step, or swollen paws'll be the least of your worries." Aya and Cecil appeared from the darkness, armed with a spear and dagger.

The troupe froze in a single, gasp-filled moment. Their synchronous reactions filled Juniper with a thick, bloody sense of _déjà vu—it was better than anything they'd rehearsed together before. And to think, all it took was a pair of squirrels—an angry cook and a goofy bard—to get the troupe harmonious—_

"The blade," Aya said, nodding to Hector. "Let's have it on the ground."

Hector drew the knife and tossed it onto the rocks. The tinny pitch of the ricochet disappeared in the distant rumbling of thunder. A storm was coming…

"What do you want?" Alastia asked, her paws trembling by her throat. She looked on the verge of tears.

"Fjord…please," Cecil said, looking at the hare. "Mary can wait. Let me help you prove your innocence. Please, just let Aya and me take you back to Skipper…it won't take long."

Aya frowned at Juniper. "I won't be as careless with _my_ knots," she said, gesturing to him. "On your knees, riverdog."

Juniper sniffed and straightened his posture, careful to stand between the pursuers and Daskin.

"Cec," Fjord said. "You don't understand—"

"Shut up!" Aya barked. Blue light flooded the cavern for a moment, and vanished; a louder crash of thunder followed. The squirrel cook tightened her grip on the spear. "Too much chatter, not enough moving. Get up to the surface, all of you—now!"

"Bit persnickety for an armed squirrel, don'tcha think?" Fjord observed.

"Aye, her wheat haggis's in th' fire f'sure." Dànaidh sniffed, wiping at the dried blood spattered across his face. "Nae gonna happen, lass." He turned his head and spoke over his shoulder. "Get 'em goin', Hector. We'll bade 'n' keep these company."

Cecil blinked and turned to Aya. "Looks like they're going with Plan 'B,' Miss Aya."

"There _is_ no Plan 'B,'" Aya retorted.

A flood of vivid blue light bathed the room again, and Aya squinted against the surprising brightness. Shapeless orbs of varying color floated against her shut vision, and she heard Dànaidh's voice echo in her ears among the rumbling thunder.

"Tairible pity…when ye cannae see what you're searchin' fer."

"I hope you have another idea," Cecil mumbled.

Aya opened her eyes and blinked rapidly. The hedgehog and hare stood six paw-lengths apart, each stealing sideways glances at the other as they blocked the path of the retreating troupe. The actors had retreated through one of the tunnels leading into darkness. The otter backed away slowly towards the tunnel, shielding the ferret kit behind him.

"Stoppit!" Aya barked, stepping forward. Dànaidh and Fjord took a pawstep towards her in response.

"Easy naow," Dànaidh warned, a slow grin growing over the side of his face.

"Cecil, listen to me," Fjord said, his eyes seeking Cecil's. "I've only known you a month, but well…Dash it! I feel like I've known you for nigh on a thousand seasons, sah. If I had to stand before the Fates and take an oath, I'd lay you down as the most honorable sort of chap a beast could know. And I know you wouldn't want to keep another chap from his beloved. Romantic souls we are, wot. I just…I _need_ to see her. To make sure she's safe. You can understand that, old top. Please, try to understand."

"Quiet, you!" Aya said, taking another pawstep. Dànaidh and Fjord followed in suit, Dànaidh flexing his paws as Fjord extended his towards Cecil.

"We're all a bit on edge here, old top. Why don't you just let us pop off to Salamandastron? Two shakes about the fire mountain and Robert's your mum's brother! We're back at Redwall with Mary in tow and ready to give this murder thingummy all the attention it rightfully deserves. Wot d'you say to that?"

Blue light flooded the room for an instant, and disappeared as quickly. The odd globs floated in Aya's vision, blurring everything else. A terrific crash tore through the hole above their heads, followed by the soft sizzle of fresh rain falling to a thirsty earth. Aya searched the darkened cavern and saw nothing.

"Damn it," she hissed.

From somewhere in the shadows, a soft voice began singing:

_"By yon bonnie banks where the flo'ers touch the skies,  
'N' the streams flow breight 'gainst the mountain.  
Where me 'n' my true love were ever wont t' fly  
'Cross the bonnie, bonnie banks o' Loch Martin."_

"Not bad," Cecil said.

"Not now!" Aya chided, moving forward through the shadows. "They're in here…somewhere." She spun her head from side to side, searching for any sign of movement. "Look around…find them!"

The cascading rain fell harder against the rocks. Cecil stepped into the path of the rain and squinted as he raised his head towards the churning clouds high above, shielding his eyes with a damp paw. "Even if we do, by chance, find them…I highly doubt that we will be able to travel in this kind o' weather."

Aya bit her lip to avoid throwing a rock at Cecil. "We can find them and bind them," she said deliberately, "and wait until the weather's calm. We shouldn't let them try and escape in this storm."

"Jolly good trying to escape with a spear through the leg, wot?"

Aya roared and sprinted towards the voice, leaping into the air with her spear raised high. Lightning accented her descent and revealed a plain rock outcrop that greeted her spear point and forehead. She bounced off the wall and collapsed loudly, a paw clutched over her forehead as she winced her inhale.

"Sorry about the forehead, miss," Fjord said from somewhere. "But I'm relieved it was the wall you poked, and not me."

"That'll teach her nae tae gang up 'gainst rocks bigger'n her." Dànaidh chuckled from another spot in the darkness and continued singing:

_"O ye'll tak' the high road 'n' I'll tak' the low road,  
'N' I'll be in Mossflow'r afore ye;  
But me 'n' my true love will never kiss again  
On the bonnie, bonnie banks o' Loch Martin."_

Cecil shook his head. "That's not how it goes," he chided to the shadows.

"Will you stop?" Aya said, rubbing at a discolored knot growing out of her forehead. Cecil hoisted her to her footpaws. "And _stop singing!"_

"I don't think she enjoyed your serenade," Fjord said.

"Mist nae be a fan o' the classics," Dànaidh conceded.

"I thought it was spiffy," Fjord said. "Care to try another?"

"After you, lad."

"Oh no, sah. After you."

"Na, na, na, gae afore me. I'm nae guid at the high bits. I'm a sight better low."

"Oh, we'll see." Fjord cleared his throat and began humming. "Hm, hm hm, hmm!"

"Oh, for the love of—" Aya groaned. She rolled her eyes at Cecil. "Find them!"

"What do you suggest?" Cecil said, shielding his eyes from the stinging rain. "All I can see is what the lightning shows me."

Fjord's voice rang confidently in a true tenor: _"The western wind is blowing fair, across the dark and distant sea…"_

Dànaidh answered:_"'N' at the secret marble stair mah Lutran galley waits fer thee…"_

"I can't believe this," Aya muttered.

The hare and hedgehog combined their voices and sang in powerful unison: _"Come down, the ancient sail is spread, the watchmole sleeps within the town. Oh leave thy lily flowerbed, oh lady mine, come down._

"Come down,  
Lady come down.  
Come down,  
Lady come down!"

Another peal of thunder echoed off the walls as the wind howled across the top of the hole. Aya gestured to Cecil, directing him to the southern end of the cavern, while she slowly crept towards the north and the location of the tunnel where the troupe retreated. She held a digit to her lips to signify silence, and Cecil nodded.

"I think your high notes may have damaged our chances, old bean," Fjord said sadly.

"Well, she's ne'er gonna calm doon if ye'r singin' lik' that. Ye'r completely oot o' tune."

"How dare you," Fjord shot back. "And don't you scold me, spineback—you're getting the flipping lyrics wrong! It's not 'Calm Down,' it's 'Come Down.'"

"I'll tak' the next bit."

"You're always talking nonsense."

"Well, 'tis better than listenin' tae it."

"You leave this to me, you old pincushion. You go lie down."

"Na, I'll tak' this bit."

_"We'll take both of you!"_ Aya snatched Dànaidh by his collar and tickled his throat with the spear's tip. "And not too soon…that 'Gates-awful song was making me deaf."

"'Tis a shame," Dànaidh said, grinning at her.

"Grab the other one!" Aya shouted to Cecil.

"I dinna think you'll find him," Dànaidh said. "He's already goan. 'Tis jus' me y'got."

Aya's eyes narrowed. "Two can play that game, hedgepig, though I'm pleased to see you're not above lying."

"I'm nae above a lot o' things," Dànaidh said, twisting his neck and snatching the spear shaft in a moment's breath. He pulled the spear past his shoulder, drawing Aya closer to him with a gasp. "'Cause I'm usually oan the bottom. Love tae shew ye som'time." He winked and pecked a kiss on her unprepared lips before shoving her backwards, relieving her of the spear as she fell. _"Las' call, longears!"_

_"Too slow, you rancid ragmuffin!"_ came the reply from the tunnel. Dànaidh hefted the spear in his bent arm, whistling to Cecil.

"Let's see ye dance, lad!" He threw the spear short, laughing as it crashed into the shallow pool below the hole in the ceiling and covered Cecil with water. "Nae bad, but werk oan it, aye!" He turned and dashed for the tunnel.

The narrow passageway rewarded Dànaidh's darkened trek with sudden blows from the winding, curving walls and suddenly lowering ceiling. He bobbed and barked as he felt bruises break out across his arms, legs and footpaws. At one junction, the path veered savagely to the right and Dànaidh collided with a solid wall; he pushed himself off and used the momentum to speed up along the correct path. Up ahead he heard pants and distant shrieks; behind him he heard curses and shouts. He grit his teeth and pushed himself faster, bending lower at his waist. He struggled up a steep incline, reaching forward with his paws to pull himself up, and slid down the decline at an angle, landing on his footpaws at the bottom. He found the troupe struggling up a rain-slicked cliff that led to the surface; Hector was assisting Thera from behind while the Gergregs hoisted her by her paw and arm. Juniper, Daskin and Fjord remained below, ready for their turn.

"We cannae wait," Dànaidh said, breathing fast. "They're nae far behind."

"I know," Hector said sharply, turning his attention back to Thera. "That's it, keep going."

"We'll may ih," Juniper said, nodding. He lifted Daskin about the waist and gave him to Hector, who in turn passed the kit up to the Gergregs.

Dànaidh mopped his brow with a paw and nodded to Fjord. "Cheers."

Fjord scoffed and smirked. "Just helping out was all…glad I could be of assistance."

_"—those damned beasts I'll rip them to pieces first!"_

Dànaidh glanced over his shoulder at the hill he'd climbed. "Tae late."

"Dànaidh!"

Dànaidh turned and saw Fjord half-way up the cliff, paw outstretched. "C'mon!"

The hedgehog ran and leaped up, grasping Fjord's paw as the hare held on to Juniper's arm. The trio slowly ascended up to ground level, but as Dànaidh reached the ceiling, Aya and Cecil slid down the decline. Aya's face was a mixture of rage and pain, her cheeks covered in sweat and soot, her forehead a solid mass of red swelling. She growled as she pointed at Dànaidh.

"You're dead!" she shouted, snatching the spear from Cecil's surprised paw.

"Wha hae!" Dànaidh cried, grinning from ear to spiked ear. "What have ye got thare, lassie? A shillelagh?"

Aya bent back and threw the spear at Dànaidh. The hedgehog leaned out and caught it before it struck the wall, nodding to Cecil and Aya. "Cor bless ye fer th' stick!" he called, raising the spear up to Daskin. As he broke the surface, the wind threatened to flatten him. The rain slapped at his fur and quills and kept his eyes mere slits. Brilliant, deadly lightning bleached the sky, and deafening thunder shook the ground.

"We need to find cover!" Hector yelled, pointing to a distant grove of trees. "Make for the forest!"

Dànaidh landed on all fours and scrambled to his footpaws, slipping in the soaked grass. Savage forks of lightning fell towards the ground and exploded in a brilliant flash, forcing the troupe to cover their eyes as they sprinted blindly towards the trees. In the reverberating thunder, Dànaidh noticed he'd passed the Gergregs and Alastia; Juniper held Daskin in his arms, and Hector was carrying Thera across his back. Fjord leapt like a trout through the grass and water, and Dànaidh admired the dancer's grace.

He turned his head to shout and—

_THUNK!_


	55. Ella Enchanted

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 54. Ella Enchanted  
**

_by Dominic_

Ella sulked in the corner. She was naked but for her diaper and the small pot that hung on a string around her neck. Poppy sat on a chair across the room, wrapping his paw up. Ella was not fond of that paw. It had scrubbed her too hard in the bath and then it had smacked her tail when she bit it. She was glad Poppy was putting the paw away now. Served that paw right.

She banged her wooden spoon against her pot. _Ponk, ponk, ponk._

The sound made Poppy smile, and Ella took that as her cue. She came out of the corner and marched around the room, _ponking_ all the while. Sometimes she would stop to zheep at something that caught her attention.

Home had changed! This was not her cottage, but her cup was on the table and her pot was here and she was banging on it. Her crib was gone but there was a different one that she had slept in the night before. There were no windows in the walls but there was a basket with all of her clothes in it. It would make a good hiding place for her treasures, if she found any. Already she had found a squished bug, but she had lost it in the bath.

She stopped in her course and stared intently at the door. She had learned a few things about the door that worried her.

First, the door would sometimes make noise like her pot. And then Poppy would say "Come in!" and the door would open, and somebeast carrying fire would come out of the darkness. In this manner, it was like the door that led to the yard. Except these beasts did not come from the yard. They came from where the clothes were supposed to be. She had tried to tell Poppy this, but he had only scolded her for piling her dresses in front of the door and he wouldn't listen to her explanation.

Then there was the stairs. Ella had only seen stairs like them at Redwall. They were the third set of stairs she had seen in her life. She didn't know what to make of them. There were stairs at Walkin's house. She had stood at the top and looked down often. _These_ stairs, she stood at the bottom and looked up, and there was a door in the ceiling. Poppy sometimes took her up to the door, which led to another house and there lived Hannah, who had a prettier dress and had bit Ella's ear when Ella had bit her tail. And so Ella was content to leave the stairs alone.

The room now fully explored, she returned to her new crib and climbed in. The mattress was soft and bouncy.

Poppy was picking things up and putting them down in different places again. He would do this a few times, walk awat, look at them, and then walk back and put them back in their original spots and shake his head. He would smile at her when he saw she was watching him. Ella jigged and banged her pot for him. _Ponk, ponk._

She began to sing for him.

_"Here's a mouse, a mouse, a mouse, a mouse!  
Wiv a sword anna campin', I'm Ella a campin'!  
Mouse anna sword, cuttimup, cuttimup, wiv a sword! Vikrararara...  
An' all Redswall, kerpoosh, blood 'n' rats, I'm a campin' Ella wiv a sword!"_

"Hah, you want to go camping?" Poppy said. "Where's your blanky? Hmm? Where's your blanky, Ella? Where's your tent?"

Poppy rustled about in her crib, lifting the mattress a little, but her blanky was nowhere to be found. He started sorting her clothes from the basket, and searching through bags.

"Hellgates, they must've missed it! Poppy didn't just say hellgates."

"Uh-_huh_, Poppy's cussin' like a horderat." Ella grinned.

"Tchk! Ella! Oh, I knew I shouldn't have left you alone with Walkin... Where's your blanky?"

"Vikrararara...rarara...ra... Vikrarara..." Ella screwed up her face and stared down at her nose, as if glaring at the tongue beneath it would help it to spit the name out right. "Vikrararara...ra-"

"Vikraja?"

"Big lizzer took it."

"Vikraja wouldn't do that. She's a merchant. She sells us things, she doesn't take them."

"Vikrarara took my sword!"

Poppy reached down and took hold of her paw, the one she held her spoon in. He gripped tightly.

"This is your sword. And this," he said, tapping her pot, "is your shield. But you know, Poppy's going to keep you safe no matter what, right?"

"Uh-huh."

"Who's gonna patch your boo-boos?"

"Poppy!"

"And who's gonna make you dinner every night and tuck you in so you're cozy?"

"Poppy!"

"And who's gonna kill the scary monsters in the closet?"

"Martin!"

"Who's Martin?" Poppy frowned, flabbergasted.

"Dominic?" a voice called from above. "Are you all set up down there?"

Ella stared at Poppy a while longer. His sad face made her feel bad, so she _ponked_ to cheer him up. Instead he just turned away and shouted at the ceiling.

"I think so! I can't get everything to look the same. I guess it will have to do."

"Well of course it's not going to look the same." Ella watched in awe as Belette came through the door in the ceiling and padded down the stairs. "It's a cellar, not a cottage, silly. Rod tells me you left a bunch of things as well. You're probably missing them without knowing it."

"Maybe..."

"What's this?"

Ella stood up and peered intently as Belette began sifting through Poppy's Do-Not-Touch box.

"Uh-oh," Ella warned. She gripped the railing of her crib. Worry rattled her world, and she whined in the back of her throat.

"Don't touch that!" Poppy cried, bounding over. "I've just got it ordered again! It was all jumbled."

"Salvia, hmmm. Motherwort... Foxglove? Isn't that poison?"

"It's a herbal remedy. It helps slow the heart and calm the nerves. It's the best way to heal my nervosa. It's chronic."

"Are you sure you're using enough?" Belette laughed. "So long as it's not contagious, why don't you and Ella come up for some tea? No use wasting the afternoon down here."

"I guess that would be alright," Poppy said. He fretted over his Do-Not-Touch box.

Belette came and hunkered down in front of Ella, peering at her through the bars.

"What's that you have there, Ella?"

Ella stared up at Belette and banged her pot harder than ever. _Ponk! Ponk! Ponk!_

"Don't you have any other toys?" Belette said, wincing. Ella shook her head and _ponk! Ponk!_ Belette straightened up and looked over at Poppy. "Doesn't she have any other toys? Something a little quieter?"

"Does she need any other toys?" Poppy said. He closed the lid with a snap. "She's happy with her pot."

"Surely she must be tired of it by now," Belette said. "Fates know I am. May I, Ella?"

She held her paws out. Ella recognized the gesture. _Ponk! Ponk!_ She jigged on the spot, bunching herself down and then zooming back up again, a precursor to actual jumping. Belette tucked her paws under Ella's arms and let her fly a moment before squeezing her tight.

Score! Ella wasted no time. Her treat was seconds away.

Dropping her spoon, her little paws undid the first three buttons in one tug, and her nose went searching into the unveiled dark, fuzzy crevice.

"Ella, no!" Poppy hissed, his voice strangled. Ella paid him no mind and tugged another button loose, searching lower, her whiskers brushing soft white fur to no avail. Belette stifled a giggle.

"It's fine, Dom. She won't find anything."

Ella ceased her snuffling a few seconds later. She scowled darkly. How dare Belette cheat her like this!

"You're not our mum!"

"Sorry, dear, I'm not. That's some instinct she's got, Dom..."

Ella kept scowling even as she changed paws. Poppy flicked her ear gently, then turned her around to rest her head on his shoulder. Belette offered her her spoon back. Ella took it, but this did not win Belette any forgiveness points.

"I'm sorry," Poppy mumbled. "Usually I have to ask, er, patrons from Walkin's tavern. I didn't know how to feed her myself... Faye's been helping. I've been trying to get her off..."

"Hey now, it's alright. If I was still producing, I wouldn't begrudge her. As it is, we'll have to settle for greensap for our tea."

Poppy took Ella up the stairs. She tensed in his arms, her fur bristling. This was Hannah's domain. Ella was not welcome here.

Hannah was making more dolls at the table in the kitchen. Ella hissed at her as Poppy sat down, and the other weaselmaid bolted from the room. Poppy flicked her ear again.

"Ella, that was rude."

"Don't mind Hannah," Belette said. "She's been difficult since her father died. I mean... my husband."

Poppy sighed. He let Ella down into Hannah's vacated chair. Ella wriggled and _ponked_ boisterously, and then jumped in fright as Belette went "Tchk!"

"Enough of that pot. Here, Ella, do you want to play with one of Hannah's dolls?"

Ella stared hard at the proffered conglomeration of pine cones and sticks. She knew these things weren't food, and they weren't spoons either. They looked to serve no immediate purpose. She took one, and found to her surprise that the entire array came along with it. She waved it in awe, marveling as not a cone nor twig came loose. As a final test of its entertainment functions, she slammed it against her pot. Whereupon it exploded.

This she deemed "fun."

"Want another doll!"

"Maybe not," Belette said, picking up the pieces. "Dominic, there's a ball on that shelf up there, can you get it down?"

"Want another doll!" Ella said again, because they hadn't complied.

"This is a ball?" Poppy said as he took the object down. "I never had one as a kit. Are you sure it's safe?"

"Dom, it's a ball. It's made of snakeskin and filled with feathers. It's not going to kill her."

"She could chew it open and choke on-"

Belette snatched it from him and set it down in front of Ella.

"Here you go, Ella. This is a ball. You roll it around."

Ella watched as Belette gave an example of the ball's function. Ella furrowed her brow as the ball rolled up to her. Then she pounced on it.

Because her pot was still secured around her neck and hanging in front of her, the pot hit first, followed by Ella. The world whirled around until she found herself on her back. Her stomach hurt, but she was too shocked to cry. Then the ball came down from wherever it had gone and hit her in the face.

"See? See?" Poppy cried, swooping her up. Ella blinked and tried to get her nose out of his neck fur so she could breathe. "This is exactly what I said would happen!"

"Dom, I don't think-"

"Just because you've raised one kit doesn't mean you know everything!"

"What in hellgates, I never said-"

Ella still hadn't made a peep, but she did belch a little as Poppy jostled her in his race to the front door.

"Good _day_, Belette!" The door slammed.

Ella bellowed, "Good day!" and _ponked_ so loud that her spoon broke, and then she cried.

-

"You know, looking back... it's kind of stupid to storm off like that when you're living in their cellar."

"And why are ye telling me this?" Shandi said. They were sitting on the porch of the inn. All was quiet for now.

_Tink, tink,_ went Ella's new silver spoon, without much enthusiasm for the sound.

"Well, I couldn't find Vikraja. And you're the only one here who doesn't do that simpering thing with their eyes at me."

"Eh? What're ye talking about?"

"I've seen the looks they give you, too. It's like they're secretly ashamed to be helping us. Tchk! _Helping_."

Ella threw her spoon down and rested her chin on her pot, staring idly at nothing and everything.

"Ye... ye didn't really kill an otter, did ye?"

"Of course not!" Poppy snarled. Then he laughed nervously. "If I did kill an otter, my teeth would be falling out. River scurvy's in their blood. If it gets on you..." He carefully began wiggling each tooth.

Ella's eyes focused on a buzzing black thing. It was small, like an ant, but it went in circles in the air. She watched it, following its movements with her nose.

She reached for her sword- no, her spoon- and began batting at the air.

"Have you seen Vikraja?"

"She's having a nap. Which is probably more interesting than anything else she could be doing at the moment."

"A nap does sound good. Time for a nap, Ella?"

She turned and clapped her paws at Poppy, and jigged so hard for him that she fell on her bum. The fly landed on her nose. Her eyes crossed, and then uncrossed as it flew away. She began chasing it.

Poppy gasped.

"Hellgates... did you see that?"

"See what? The fly?"

"Ella's eyes. She's _tracking_ it."

"So? What's the big deal? Kits chase bugs."

"No, not Ella. She's never- Fates, look at her go! She's never been able to. She chases them, but she can't see them. Not like this. Ella, mind the stairs!"

"What d'ye mean, can't see them? She's not blind."

"No, but she doesn't focus well. It always takes her a moment. By then she loses the bugs, but keeps crawling after them after they're gone. But _look!_ She's-"

Ella zheeped. At last! She bit the flying ant right out of the air and swallowed it.

"She's going to get whitetongue! Ella, spit it out!"

Ella grinned and displayed her empty mouth. Poppy's shoulders slumped. Then he cheered up.

"Well, time for some physick, then!"

"Oh, nooooooooo," Ella said. He grabbed her tail before she could get away.

-

Having administered an unhealthy dosage of the most foul medicine of all time to her, Poppy took her back outside and turned her around to rest her chin on his shoulder. He patted her back until she burped. This always made her sleepy.

Staring at the wall of the inn, the long wooden boards began to deepen. One board in particular sunk into the wall, and from her perspective, she was looking down at a long hallway. Flickering torches dotted the sides. A mouse began to walk through, singing to himself.

Ella floated down until her footpaws were on the ground in front of the mouse. She looked up at him. He smiled and sat down, placing his sword across his legs. She reached out for it. He let her take it by the hilt.

The sword in her paws fit perfectly. She smiled back at the mouse, and at the army of eyes in the shadows behind him. A set of claws clasped her shoulder gently, and she looked up. Vikraja looked down at her. Ella zheeped at her.

And then the mouse began to talk.


	56. Midnight Mossflower

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 55. Midnight Mossflower  
**

_by Juniper_

The troupe continued their mad flight from the tunnel, the rain and wind buffeting them about with the same force they had experienced while floundering in the River Moss. The only difference was that this time they had firm footing on the ground, and that was enough to help guide their steps as they sought shelter under the safe canopy of the woodlands. Well, as safe as trees in a thunderstorm could get, which was not very, upon retrospect, but the hazard took a back seat to more pressing concerns.

Juniper ran as fast as his paws would carry him, Daskin clutched to his chest, and all weariness, pain, and exhaustion extinguished from his body by the pounding rain. The others seemed to have gotten a second wind as well; nobeast was trailing or lagging, and even Alastia had foregone her usual thespian complaints. The absence did not bare well for Juniper's nerves, even if they would have been lost in the rain and thunder.

He watched as Dànaidh pulled ahead, running with Vulpuz on his back, before he reached the treeline. Juniper himself put on an extra burst of speed, just to show that he would not be left behind, nor would he allow a kit to encumber him, before he saw Dànaidh turn his head and fall to the ground with a dead weight. The otter slowed his footpaws until he had ceased running. That didn't look like a simple trip; something was wrong.

Daskin slid from his arms, taking the hesitation as a cue that he was becoming an impediment to the otter's flight, though he stalled as Juniper kept a firm grip on his tunic. Juniper held his ground as the ferret looked up at him in curiosity. His good eye scanned the entrance to the woodlands. Something was off; he just had to find what it was.

"What's wrong?" He heard Daskin ask through the rain. The otter shook his head; his eye continued to search.

A giant flash of blue illuminated the entrance to the forest. Standing over Dànaidh's prone form was the black silhouette of a large rat. In his paws was a wicked-looking club.

"June?" Daskin's voice was quiet, and scared. The otter could barely hear him above the wind.

Juniper tried to be strong, but his words came out just a quiet. "Yeth?"

"What was that?"

The otter shook his head. "I don' know."

"But you saw it, right?"

"I' looked like a ra'. Thtop!" Juniper called to the rest of the troupe, but it was lost in a great peal of thunder. Juniper tried calling again, but to no avail. The rest of the troupe disappeared in the trees.

"What do we do?" Daskin's voice was small as he slipped a paw into Juniper's and squeezed. The sudden pain caused the otter to hiss and rip his paw from the kit's grasp. Daskin shrank a little, but the otter dismissed the apology with a shake of the head.

Another flash illuminated the entrance to the grove. Dànaidh's body was still lifeless and prone, but whatever had stood over him was gone. Juniper looked behind him. Perhaps they could seek shelter in the tunnels … if Aya and Cecil were not currently lifting themselves out of it. Juniper cursed. What do to? What to do?

"What do we do?" Daskin asked again, and the stress that was building inside the otter was near to reaching his breaking point.

His mind raced, going through every story he could remember. What was the safest option? What would lead them out of danger?

"Into the treeth," Juniper said, and prodded Daskin to the forest.

Between having another run-in with the angry squirrels in the caves or staring down the hulking monster in the woodlands, it was the best option they had. By facing the squirrels, they were guaranteeing imprisonment, and with the state the otter was in, and the ferret only a kit, escape was highly unlikely. By facing the monster in the forest, well, there was only one, and it was busying itself with six other beasts, eight once Aya and Cecil found their way in. Besides, Juniper was the investigator—the hero of the tale. He couldn't die. And Daskin, Daskin was just a kit. Kits always survived. You didn't kill a kit; it just wasn't right.

The otter made a wide loop as he directed them into the grove of trees, far away from where Dànaidh had fallen, and where they had seen the mysterious rat. Juniper knew the precaution was silly, that the added distance didn't matter when it came to an unidentified beast after your blood, but Juniper did not want to play that game.

The thick canopy overhead protected them from the intense downpour, reducing it to a mere drizzle, though the rustling of leaves and branches in the wind had amplified tenfold. Juniper led the kit through the trees, keeping a sharp eye out for signs of movement, as it was near impossible to hear approaching footpaws.

It was dark; the flashes of lightning barely able to cut through the leaves overhead, even if they had become almost constant in their flashes. Most of the light came through the open tree line, and if Juniper really focused on each bolt, he could see how it spread through the grove like an incoming wave. He shook his head. Now was not the time to be fascinated by the storm.

They penetrated deeper in the forest, though it was not something Juniper was keen on doing. The farther they descended into the woods the less light could reach them, and the more frightening and cold the trees became. Juniper looked back towards the entrance to the grove. Two black squirrelly silhouettes could be seen at the base of the tree line. One was rising from Dànaidh's bristly lump, shaking its head. Juniper suppressed a knot that was tying his throat shut. Dànaidh was dead.

Of course, he reasoned. Of course he was dead. The hedgehog had to die. He was the biggest and strongest of them; the one that could keep them all safe. It only made sense that he would be the first to go. The knot in Juniper's throat eased, though it was still hard to breathe. He had hoped Dànaidh would be more….

Thunder crashed overhead, an earsplitting peal that began with a distant rumble and coalesced to a resounding crack. Daskin pressed himself close to the otter, who found himself crouched to the ground after the tumultuous sound. When Juniper looked again at the entrance to the grove, Cecil and Aya were gone.

"Come on," he said after he had collected his wits. He motioned Daskin farther into the trees. He hadn't seen any of the others in the troupe, but he knew they were in here somewhere, and it was only a matter of time before they ended up running into each other. His eye searched through the winding trees. He had to find somebeast. Safety in numbers was the only way they would survive.

The two crept cautiously through the forest, both aware of the cryptic danger that was stalking them. Movement flittered on the edge of Juniper's vision, but by the time his head caught up, the movement was gone, replaced by a swinging branch. The otter pivoted his body so that he faced where the movement had come from and twisted himself in the direction the movement had traveled, keeping Daskin safe behind him the whole time. A bright flash illuminated the grove, brighter than any flash they had yet seen, and Juniper was caught between searching the trees for something that didn't belong and the jagged bolt that flickered through the leaves for whole seconds.

"June." Daskin pulled on the otter's vest.

Giving the trees a last long look, Juniper turned around and followed his sight to where the ferret was pointing.

There at the base of a large oak was Hector, and lying across his prostrate form was Thera.

The two ran to their side.

"What do we do? June, what's going on?" Daskin asked, his voice filled with fear.

"No, thith ith fine," the otter said as he checked for signs of life. Their heads were bloody, but they were still breathing. Just a crack to the skull, nothing more.

"Are they dead?" the ferret kit asked.

"No. Lithen, don' worry. This is egthac'ly what'th thuppothed to happen."

"What?" Daskin sounded incredulous. "What are you talking about?"

"Eathy," the otter said, plopping himself into a sitting position on the ground. His mind raced. How was this supposed to happen? He had the answer, but he lost it. It should be obvious, but there was something unexpected that wasn't working into the equation. "I mean, thomething'th not righ'. Wai'." He thought. "You thaw Dànaidh, righ'? Thomebeath' killed him; you thaw them thtand over him, righ'?"

"Yes."

"Tho we're being hun'ed. They're picking uth off one by one. I'm juth', I'm thurprithed tha' Hec'or and Thera were the negtht to go. By all accoun'th, they thould be one of the latht."

Daskin shook his head. "I don't understand."

"I though' we'd come acroth the Gergregth negtht. Or Alath'ia. Alath'ia thould have been the negtht to go."

"June…"

The otter forced a grin. "Relagth. Everything ith under con'rol. Have you ever been 'old a horror thtory? _Midnigh' Mothflower_, or _The Plague a' the Tholari Oathith_? Of courthe you do." Juniper answered his own question. "Fjord and I re-enac'ed a thene. I played the female."

"What?"

"They're all very formulaic. Ther'ain characterth die in a ther'ain order. It'th juth', Hec'or and Thera…" the otter trailed off.

"What about them?"

"Thomething'th no' righ'. They're breaking the ruleth."

"Who's breaking the rules?"

Movement flashed out of the corner of the otter's vision. Without a second thought Juniper grabbed Daskin and fell to the ground, feigning death.

"June," Daskin started, until the otter shushed him.

"Look," he said, and used his busted muzzle to indicate the scene.

They watched in silence as two dark shapes ran through the trees, seeming not to have a clear indication of where they were going or what they were doing.

"Is she still following us?" Gergreg asked.

"I think we lost her," Gergreg replied.

It was at that moment a third dark shape came whipping through the forest, making a beeline for the pine marten twins.

"You idiot!" One hit the other. "Why'd you go and say that?"

"Shut up and come one!" the other yelled and scampered up a great big oak as good as any squirrel could dream. The other was not long in following.

"You think you can out-climb a squirrel?" Aya screeched and followed suit.

Juniper breathed a sigh of relief. If they could get back to the tunnels, they might be able to avoid this whole mess. Then, they could figure out some way of getting back with the troupe, and everything would be all right. Helping the kit to his footpaws, Juniper lead the way back towards the entrance to the woodlands.

Then, Daskin shrieked.

Juniper whirled around, putting himself between the kit and whatever it was that had caused him to scream. It was a squirrel, but neither Cecil nor Aya. He was too young, and his tunic was almost two sizes too big. The squirrel put a paw to his muzzle and bounded off to the left.

Aya had ceased scaling her tree long enough to call out, "Cecil! They're down here!"

"Yes, Miss Aya, I'm coming!" Cecil's voice replied through the rustling leaves and rain.

"Come on," June said, and followed where the strange squirrel had gone. Juniper didn't know why he was doing it; perhaps it was because the blind trust was the only comforting unknown in this situation. And, well, he still felt there was an omnipotent sense of safety that hung about him. There was nothing he could do that would lead himself or the kit into inescapable danger. Something would work out to their advantage.

And so, with this conclusion in his mind, he followed where the squirrel led, Daskin keeping close behind. They wound through the trees, penetrating deeper and deeper in the woodlands, and the flashes of lightning that had seemed so bright before were becoming more and more dim.

A resounding crack of thunder issued overhead, one that shook the forest to its roots. In the resulting flash, the squirrel turned around and gave the pair a wink before bolting deeper into the trees.

Juniper grabbed Daskin's paw and broke into a run, trying to keep up with the squirrel, but his exhaustion was finally setting in. It was not long before the squirrel had disappeared in the woodlands. Despite losing their guide, Juniper continued to push ahead.

The otter wasn't sure when it was they had come across the clearing, nor was he sure who it was that was more surprised. Himself or Daskin, because the beastly rat and the hulking fox had seemed to anticipate their arrival.

"Well, well, what d'we have here?" the fox asked, withdrawing his sword. The rat brandished his club. It was a vicious weapon that had a steel ball attached to the end, complete with a lengthy spike. Juniper shuddered as he thought of Dànaidh's skull coming into contact with such a malevolent tool.

The hesitation was enough for Cecil to catch up and burst into the clearing, but Juniper didn't bother to spare a thought towards the squirrel and the predicament he had stumbled in.

"Dathkin, run!" the otter screamed, but the kit had already been snatched, a sword held to his throat by the squirrel who had been their trusted guide. Too late now, Juniper realized what a fool he had been, following the plot, and not outsmarting it.

It was complete and utter fear that had the otter pivoting, turning to run, before a high pitched voice cut through the sounds of the storm and the anxiety that had taken control of the otter.

"Juniper, please!"

In another story, Daskin had remained silent. Juniper ran, and he was pursued through the black and the rain to an uncertain fate. Perhaps he could have escaped, and spent the remainder of the story tracking the group, waiting for the opportune time to set Daskin free. Or maybe he ran into the others, and the ending climaxed in a brilliant act of swashbuckling and a daring fight scene.

And then what? Bring the kit back to the Abbey to face trial? Sought out for suspicion of murder along with Fjord and Dànaidh? Himself, too, now that Juniper had finally connected why they were being pursued in the first place.

And if the kit was convicted? What would become of him, then? Perhaps it didn't matter. After all, Daskin was just a character in this, the same as Shelton, and the rats and mole they had encountered in the tunnels. The same as Dànaidh, whose part Juniper could not help but feel was cut far too short, not when he was just beginning to figure him out. The same as Cecil, who now found himself fighting for his life. They were all characters in this.

But Daskin wasn't just a character, and his life wasn't something Juniper felt he could play around with. So when Daskin said, "Please," Juniper stopped, and allowed himself to be tied and led away to an uncertain fate.


	57. Nightmares and Dreamscapes

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 56. Nightmares and Dreamscapes  
**

_by Cecil_

Cecil groaned for what he thought to be the ninth time in the past hour. The thunderous pain surging from his skull exploded once more throughout the entirety of his body, threatening to subdue him just as the others had.

It worked, causing him to flinch from the pain and halt his forced march abruptly, much to the dismay of his fellow prisoners bound behind him.

It seemed almost ironic. Being tied up twice in the same day to two different sets of beasts wasn't what the squirrel had thought would happen when he woke up that morning. In fact, he wasn't even sure if he _had_ woken up that morning at all. Dittany had died. Aya had almost drowned and he had saved her. Shelton was dead. This all seemed like some impossible dream that he would wake up from after he pinched himself. Unfortunately for the bard, that too was an impossibility. Having his paws bound behind him left him with little to no allowed motion in them, making pinching, let alone movement, out of the question.

Cecil sighed.

He never had been any good at fighting. After he had followed Aya's directions and tried to capture the two fleeing beasts, those bloody actors he had been pursuing had run into him, fleeing from a group of beasts armed to the teeth. Cecil, out of instinct, grabbed his lute and tried to defend himself with it. But, skipping out on fencing classes as a kit and having a musical instrument for a weapon did not aid in the fact that he was fighting against beasts who succeeded in the art of bloodthirsty savagery. And when it came down to it, a lute was nothing compared to a sword, let alone three.

And, of course, the other pursuers, obviously from Redwall, had made an error and mistook him to be a suspect of his own lover's murder. Cecil cursed his luck.

_Twaaang._

The sudden off-key sound brought Cecil out of his aching head and back into nightmarish reality.

"Get movin', dozypaws!" a sharp voice commanded. "We ain't got all spring." A harsh tug on the rope halter around Cecil's neck, making him stumble and almost choke, emphasized his captor's point.

The bard wisely obeyed, defiantly turning his head and glaring daggers at the tiny squirrel trotting a short distance away. Barely standing at the same level as Cecil's chest and wearing a tunic that was a good two sizes too large, the little ruffian returned his gaze and grinned wickedly. Cecil's eyes wandered to the object gripped in his captor's paws. The little _thing_ was dragging it along the bumpy forest floor like a Dibbun dragging her doll, carelessly letting it plow through the deadly clumps of rocks and brush, and leaving a wide line in the dirt in its wake.

Cecil grimaced. He could just see the scratches that he would have to buff out later.

The tiny squirrel drug the musician's lute through another briar, snagging its body and forcing him to tug it free none too gently.

"Don't just yank it!" Cecil found himself shouting at the younger squirrel without realizing. He shut his mouth instantly.

"Eh?" it replied, toying with the instrument's strings. Cecil cringed at the aspect. "Whad'ja say?"

The bard saw the dangerous glint in his eyes. "Nothing. I said nothing." A captured beast was better than a dead one.

"Yes ya did. I heard ya," he replied.

"No, I did not."

"Err… yes you did," the little ferret kit bound behind him said.

"Oh, you silly kits and your imaginations." The squirrel chuckled anxiously. "I would not be surprised if you thought all o' this was just a game. By chance, how many seasons do you have under your belt? About six? Seven?" Cecil chattered nervously, casting a sideways glance at the younger, far more deadly squirrel beside him.

"I'm ten," the ferret replied.

"And a half," his otter companion commented, earning a glare from the kit. The woodlander shrugged.

Cecil gave a nervous laugh. "Ah, the double digits. I remember when I had my tenth nameday. Oh, it was wonderful! Father didn't show, of course, but at least Mother and Nanny Prudence were th-"

"Will you shut up!" one of the captors, a fox named Mordred, shouted. He nodded to a hulking rat striding beside him. "Trobes, if you will."

The brutish rat, standing taller (and quite considerably wider in the biceps) than the squirrel by about two heads, glanced back. Saying nothing, he looped the leather cord of a thick club around his paw, giving it a few experimental swings in the air.

"I… shall be quiet," Cecil replied quickly. Trobes flashed a quick smile and put the club back in his belt.

"Aye, good choice," Rufus commented. "You see, The squirrel continued toying with Cecil's lute, tuning it incorrectly and strumming the strings at random as a child would without any amount of skill or direction.

_Twang._

Cecil tried not to grimace.

_Tanng._

He failed.

_Twuang_

The bard held back the vomit rising in his throat.

_Dwiing._

Cecil blinked. That one was rather nice actually.

_Twaainng._

He cringed at the familiar, almost comical sound of a string snapping. Cecil sighed. Why did it always have to do that?

"Ruddy, no good guitar!"

"It happens to be a lute you little savage," Cecil muttered beneath his breath.

"Why don't you just get rid of the damn thing?" Mordred asked simply, readjusting his grip on the prisoner's lead ropes. "It's not as if it's worth anything."

The thought of the savages dropping his instrument somewhere in the middle of Mossflower Woods jolted in Cecil's head like an off-key high note. Before the younger squirrel could respond to his comrade, the bard piped in. "Oh, but it is!" he chimed. It wasn't too much of a lie. He recalled that his childhood nanny had to use three of her salaries to buy it for him. "It is, in fact, a very expensive… very, very expensive musical instrument that only the most professional and acclaimed bards, minstrels, and performers are allowed to carry… let alone play." That time he lied.

"So, it's expensive?"

"Oh, very. I am quite sure that it would fetch you a pretty gold piece," Cecil replied. It probably would actually, had the word 'Sassafras' not been scrawled childishly and rashly on its body. _What the little nitwit doesn't know, shall not hurt him, I suppose._

"Well, Mord, that's why," Rufus answered his friend and continued playing with the instrument's strings. The silent Trobes rolled his eyes.

Cecil breathed a sigh of relief.

_"I think I owe you a new lute."_

Cecil smiled.

_Oh, Dittany, I about lost my lute for a second time there. Hehe,_ he voiced in his head.

Dittany. He was surprised he hadn't thought about her until now. With everything that had been going on, it had been almost impossible. Immediately, a rush of thoughts entered his head like a new song idea. Where was she? No, that was a stupid question. Dark Forest, of course. Could she see well? Was she watching over him? Did she know the predicament he was in? Of course she could. Why would he ask himself that? Every minute of every day, she was watching.

He smiled.

-.0.-

_Twiddly dee o' twiddly doo,  
have I a song just for you…"_

_Sitting in the low branches of an elm tree, Cecil flipped open a wire-bound notebook and scribbled down the words. He kicked his legs impatiently and touched his quill pen to his chin, concentrating on the lyrics on the page. Perched precariously in a nook on the limb next to him, a tiny bottle of ink sat, ready to be manipulated into swirling waves and lines of text. The squirrel dipped his quill into the ink and held it over his parchment, making its point hover only a hair over the smooth surface._

_"Hmm," the squirrel voiced aloud, deep in thought, "now what should follow after that?" He tapped the quill-tip against his chin, dabbing the pitch-black ink onto his vivid orange fur without realizing. "Hmm, perhaps…no, that simply would not work. Maybe… no. Or rather…" His ears perked up in excitement. "Yes! That would do wonderfully!" Grinning from ear to ear, he ecstatically scrawled down additional waves of letters and words to his song. "Haha! Yes, truly you are a genius, Cecil, for this is your best song yet! Once I perform this, ha, I can see it now. Beasts from all over the land shall come to watch it and they shall be so astounded by the lyrics… the instrumentation… the performance in itself that they too shall learn the song and shall take it with them, playing it wherever they go. My name and song shall be echoed far and wide. They will speak of me in their travels and soon, everybeast will know the name: Cecil Sassafras. Yes, that is what shall happen!" he exclaimed, nearly losing his balance and falling from his perch. The squirrel flailed, just managing to catch himself, then breathed a sigh of relief._

Crash.

_He cringed._

_Cecil glanced to his left, where his bottle of ink had been only moments before plummeting to the earth by the pull of gravity. He sighed and glanced down at the smashed remains of the container on the ground below._

_"Rubbish," he cursed. The bard closed his notepad and got to his footpaws. With the speed only a squirrel could have, he hopped down the low limbs, making his way to the base of the tree._

_Upon reaching the forest floor, Cecil brushed off the loose dust and recovered his lute from where he had left it by the tree's roots. "No worries though. I needed to come down anyway. I'm quite sure that sitting in a tree all throughout the day is most likely not good for my posture," he stated matter-of-factly. "After all, it would not be good if I were a hunchback who was unable to play his lute because of a simple posture impediment."_

_He reached into his pantaloons pocket and produced a charcoal stick. Putting the black stump in his notepad's binding, he flipped it open and stared at his lyrics. "Now, to get back to work. Hrm… I need a word to rhyme with 'orange'... perhaps 'door henge'…no." He stopped and quickly wrote down the next line. "Fortunately, if I sing a tiny bit faster in that section, I'm sure nobeast shall notice that it doesn't."_

_Cecil stuck the stick back into the binding and continued moving. He had not moved three paces when-_

Thud.

_The bard about jumped out of his own fur, dropping his writing on accident with a loud clunk. A similar sound followed as the squirrelmaid he had run into fortuitously dropped her own load.  
Realizing what he had done almost instantly, Cecil dropped to all fours and began to help her recover her basket of nuts and berries. "Oh, I am dearly sorry, miss, truly I am. I should have been paying more attention to my surroundings. Please, allow me to assist you," he apologized, grabbing a pawful of the berries and nuts and tossing them into the maiden's basket._

_"Oh, that's very kind o' you," she replied, grabbing up some of them and releasing them into the basket._

_When the task was finished, Cecil passed her the basket and grinned. She was pretty, with light brown eyes and dark auburn fur. An air of elegance drifted with her like a catchy melody. The squirrelmaid was nothing compared to Alajake, granted, but she was pretty nonetheless._

_"Cecil Sassafras," he said without hesitating, holding out his paw formally._

_She glanced at the extended paw. "Well, Mister Sassafras, I would shake your paw, but that would involve me dropping my basket again." She grinned. "Dittany."_

_Cecil smiled._

_"Well, Miss Dittany, please… allow me to carry that for you." _

-.0.-

"We're here."

The heartwarming memory faded from Cecil's mind, exposing reality once more to the squirrel at the unexpected voice.

Cecil blinked twice. He glanced around him cautiously, taking in his surroundings and trying to distinguish where he was.

They had arrived at a clearing somewhere in the forest. Clumps of weeds and flowers dotted the grass just like every other meadow, and there were no recognizable landmarks, making it impossible to distinguish it from any of the others.

Cecil's footpaws ached. How long had he been walking? The sun had slowly begun dipping below the horizon, giving the sky a pinkish hue. The squirrel's eyes widened in disbelief. Had it seriously been that long? He scratched that thought. No, he could believe it. Thinking about Dittany had made the time pass by easier. She was easy to think about.

The shrill sound of crying and wailing greeted Cecil's ears as the beasts led them to the center of the clearing where a cluster of tents were pitched. A fire had been built and a beast sat by it, lazily turning a spit of woodpigeon for a meal.

"Hush up, will ya?" he commanded to a trio of woodlander kits bound closely by. They whimpered in response. The vermin turned back to the oncoming beasts. "Oh, finally you two decided to show up. And what've you got, eh?"

"Oh, shut it, Trothfang," Mordred snapped back at him. "We did our job."

"Did'ja now? Two overgrown woodlanders and a vermin kit, seems like you did your job just right enough," Trothfang sneered.

"The ferret was with them; I don't think he can be trusted. Asides, there's probably something we can do with these woodlanders." Mordred grinned wickedly.

Cecil glanced anxiously at the almost-silent kits then back at Mordred. Why did these beasts have kits bound and tied up? Surely there weren't that many suspects that were children. _What's going on here?_

Trothfang glanced at the four woodpigeons roasting on the fire. "I think I'll reward myself tonight. Go and catch yer own dinner."

Rufus clenched his teeth and reached for his dagger.

"Rufus," Mordred warned. "Go take the prisoners and put them somewhere."

Cecil gulped. _These beasts… aren't from-_

"Wait," the ferret kit started. "You're not from Redwall?" he finished, saying what everybeast was thinking.

The four other beasts spared him a single glance.

"Rufus," Mordred repeated, "do what I asked."

Realizing the danger he was in, Cecil struggled as hard as a beast who was tied up could, straining against his lead rope and trying to pull away from the surprisingly strong squirrel. _'Gates! 'Gates! 'Gates!_ Rufus easily fought against the struggling bard, tugging him and the other two prisoners to the outskirts of the camp.

A short while later, Rufus, with the help of Trobes, had the trio tied to the base of a tree, in perfect view of the four kitnappers. Cecil watched as they began talking amongst each other, constantly chuckling and pointing at the three kits. After a while, the four beasts moved into a tent, leaving the captured beasts in their own company.

Cecil gazed at the three kits. He could only imagine how worried their parents must be. They were probably wishing that something like this didn't happen, hoping that they were just lost in the forest or playing a friendly game of hide and see and not captured by savage vermin… or woodlanders for that matter. Kits…

His mind wandered to that meeting only two nights before.

_"Expecting who?" he stupidly asked._

_"A kit…" Dittany replied. "Your kit."_

He lowered his gaze. She had been… with his… Cecil choked back a sob. The thought… the thought of being a father… to a kit! Would he have been any good at it? Would he have raised it right? Would he have been a better parent than his own father had been?

Cecil clenched his teeth to hold back a tear.

He never even got to tell her what he thought of it.

The squirrel imagined himself holding it, looking into its innocent eyes. They were Dittany's, or course. Every feature it had, reminded him of her. The baby looked up at him and giggled in delight at the appearance of its father, raising its tiny arms and trying to grasp the bobbing feather in Cecil's hat.

In his imagination, Cecil smiled.

In reality, he wept.

He would've loved every minute of it. There wasn't any doubt. Every time it woke him up in the middle of the night with its crying, every time he would've had to change a dirty diaper, every time it had a temper tantrum when it didn't get its way, it would not have mattered. Just the sight of it crawling, then walking, and slowly growing would've made him smile. Just the knowledge of it being his…

"What do you think they want?" the ferret kit's voice interrupted his thoughts.

Cecil turned his head and faced the young vermin. "I haven't a single idea. I assumed they had mistaken me for a suspect and were fetching us back to Redwall, as you did, but I was apparently incorrect."

The otter he and Aya had rescued earlier, spoke up. "It'th a plot twith," he stated matter of factly.

"Juniper." The kit shook his head and sighed.

"But no matter what they are planning to do to us, I assume, because we are tied up and cannot escape, that it isn't anything good," Cecil stated. He struggled vainly against his bonds. He sighed. "Cecil Sassafras, if you've forgotten."

"Hrm? Oh… umm, Silver," the ferret replied hesitantly. "The otter's Juniper, if you don't remember."

"Well, Masters Juniper and Silver, as we are in the same dire situation, it would be appropriate if we cooperate with one another to get out of it. Agreed?" Cecil proposed.

"What's the point?" Silver asked. "Are you going to fight them off with your lute?"

"Master Silver, let me give you two words o' advice," the squirrel replied. "One. Breaking a bard's musical instrument is like breaking a gal's heart. Whether it be the bard or the gal, it leaves a big puddle of tears on the floor that has to be mopped up later. And two. Never give up. Beast's fear failure, but what they don't understand is that giving up is worse than failure. Failure is good because you tried and learned from your mistakes. Don't forget that."

"Yeah… that still doesn't help if we get caught again."

Cecil was about to speak when he thought on the lad's words. "No. No it does not. I suppose we shall have to try and succeed then."

"Yeth, bu' how are we going to ge' out of the ro'eth?"" Juniper asked.

"I am currently working on that." Cecil strained once more against the thick ropes to no avail. "Or n-YOWCH!" he yelped as something sharp dug into his rump. The squirrel's eyes widened in disbelief, and he smiled.

_Oh, Fjord… bless you._

end of week three. _  
_


	58. Dice Are Rolling, the Knives Are Out

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

start of week four. 

**Chapter 57. Dice Are Rolling, the Knives are Out  
**

_by Skipper_

"There's near a thousand livin' here now, aye?"

Skip was peering out of the Abbess's study, his eye cast to the edge of Redwall City, the outskirts just visible over the wall. He leaned against the sill, willing the warmth in the red stone to reinvigorate his tired body.

_Aye, a thousand here. And another thousand from the festival. Fates know how many have slipped off, since then. How many just made accommodations for the festivities..._

"– and there's the north camps that seem to be slipping farther from town each night -"

"- How dare you! We've kept to -"

_Accommodations for the festivities... Who planned this. Who -_

"Skip!"

The otter looked back over his shoulder. "Hmm?"

A room full of indignant dignitaries welcomed him. The beasts who were his suspects. The beasts he needed.

"Well, what are you going to do about it?"

Skipper was silent as he made his way back to the table in the center of the room. He spoke up, "Nothin' different. Lady Willa's got the perimeter. If'n ye cross it, we'll know."

"I've a crop to get in, you -"

The otter cut off the retort with a kick to the table leg. The contents jumped, startling drinks and beasts alike.

"Stow yer yap." Skipper's voice was level. "If you're in a tizzy 'bout yer home port the Sparra 've volunteered their wings t' deliver yer messages."

He then shot a look to Lazuleep. The rat nodded a reply. "Fine. Come along, friends. At least we've Redwall's deep cellar to drown our sorrows in."

The group filed out, whispered machinations following them like a cloud of disturbed bees.

Five beasts remained: Skipper, Lazuleep, Willa, Swiftwing of the Sparra, and a novice. The last of which feigned deafness as he cleaned the mess from Skipper's outburst.

"Calling it a perimeter is nice and all, Skipper, but _I_ only have so long before I have to get home... and I've a daughter to find." The squirrel queen sneered at the doorway. "And they get bolder each day."

"We can't have eyes everywhere," The rat spoke next, shuffling a few slips of paper. "I'm afraid the smaller lords are starting to fall in behind the more headstrong. If any one of them decided to try to force their way out..."

"We 'um close to finding your badworms, riverdog. Our scouts are tireless."

Skip leaned back in his chair, eyes half-lidded. "Ye lot 'ave a better idea? I'd hoist th' bounty back up, but everybeast'd run home, claiming they was after that lot that fled – leavin' a dozen seasons t' find and question everybeast who was here."

The room was silent for a long moment.

"Well, sir..." A voice came from below the table.

"Eh?" Skip opened one eye fully. "Speak up..."

"El. Well, Ellsworth. Ma mom liked hares, y' see."

"Oh Fates..." Willa rolled her eyes and made for the door.

"Well, Skip, sir. Y' see, one time, ma buddy Kay and I - well, we were gonna go fishin'. But we didn' have no line, see. There was all this nettle, though, and we been caught in it before, so we knows its strong. Well, Kay there decides to dive right in and make hisself a net – he'd been on the fizz pretty hard by then. Nettle stings over everythin' but his rudder. I tells ya, Sister Lavender 'bout to had a faint at that, it was so amazin'-"

"Amazing..." Lazuleep echoed, regarding him with an interested eye, "It's like he can't stop, now that he's gotten started."

" – still, we got ourselves a big ol' bass outta that net – after he made hisself a pair o' gloves outta -"

"El!" Skip's voice broke over the swells of the narrative. "Reef those sails!"

"Me think riverdog dived in too-shallow wormpool."

"He means," Lady Willa began, her head leaning in from the doorway, "that it's time to use a net instead of a line."

"She's right, Skipper." Lazuleep agreed. "We've got to get someone back and questioned before it gets any worse."

"Fine," Skip growled. "Send out search parties. Half-dozen for each beast 's missin'. Two squirrels or sparra with each group t' scout from th' air. I'll send one o' my crew apiece, too."

The long silence signaled an end to the confab. As the beasts filed out, the sparrow slipped Skip a note.

The note was dwarfed within his paws, yet the contents seemed to grow off the page.

_Five more. Western ramparts to the edge of town._

"Damn it." Skipper closed his eyes again, massaging his temple with a paw.

_That makes... A dozen dibbuns since the festival began. As if I had the beasts to spare for hide and seek._


	59. The Sword and the Scaled

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 58. The Sword and the Scaled  
**

_by Vikraja_

Special Thanks to Danaidh and Tierney.

Vikraja stirred in her sleep. Ominous, distant thunder rumbled all around her in the darkness. She felt needles prickling beneath her scales, and her tail stiffened behind her; the urge to flee was monstrous. But the monitor stayed where she was all the same, craning her neck to peer through the dark. The young weasel kit Ella stood a short distance away, staring up at something. She didn't seem scared at all by the thunder or the blackness. Vikraja grinned and approached her slowly, stopping when she stood directly behind the kit.

She raised a claw –

– and gently placed it on Ella's shoulder.

The armored mouse stood before Ella, a shining apparition in contrast to the deepening shadows around him. Vikraja didn't know why, but she took comfort in the glowing mouse and dipped her head in greeting. As she watched, several of the shadows around the mouse began to solidify into globular masses that shimmered and pulsed with an evil presence. The masses continued to fluctuate until they became outlines of armed beasts with glowing red eyes and yellow fangs. Vikraja hissed, flexing her claws.

"Run," the mouse said, staring directly into Vikraja's eyes. "Run, Vikraja. Your time will come. Take my sword and flee."

"Why?" Vikraja asked.

"Your safety is at stake... and the safety of Ella."

Vikraja looked down at Ella.

She looked up at the lizard and giggled. "Campin' Ella!"

"Ella cannot wield the sword until she is of age," the mouse continued. "She is the Champion. You are the Swordbearer. You will teach her.."

The mouse leaned forward and pointed at Vikraja with a glowing paw. "... but you must learn yourself."

"But... me? Why?" Vikraja cried, staring at the glowing mouse. "And why are – "

"Wake," the mouse commanded.

Vikraja bolted out of bed and collapsed onto the floor in a pile of twisted bedsheets.

~ ~

Vikraja sat in her room, chin in her claws, pondering the strange dream from the night before. Ella, a Champion? And who was that mouse? It was so odd; she was sure she'd never seen him before and yet she felt as if she knew him. _How did he know about the zword? And what did he mean by _hiz_ zword? And where am I zuppozed to run to?_ Vikraja had so many questions, not the least of which was how to get out of the inn without anybeast stopping her.

Suddenly, a sharp knock at the door jarred Vikraja out of her thoughts. "Who'z there?"

"Conez. I have dinner for you."

Vikraja flushed—of all the times to come visit! She hastily tied a jade sash around her waist and pulled a scarf over her head. "Come in."

The lizard entered and set the tray in front of Vikraja. A few moments of awkward silence followed. Vikraja flicked her tongue and inspected the food on the tray suspiciously. "What iz thiz? It'z green..."

Cones laughed. "Zorry," he replied, "but it waz all that waz left from dinner. Thoze zquirrelz and other 'woodland' beaztz zeem to enjoy it."

"Lzzt. Thoze beazts are crazy," the lizard said, tapping her tail once in emphasis. "I've been craving zomething with meat... a nize woodpigeon, or maybe a dormouze." She let slip a nervous giggle.

"Hmm... I do know a little clearing, near your cart, where there are woodpigeonz nezting... Maybe you'd like to come with me; we could have a proper dinner?" Cones looked at Vikraja sideways and flicked his tongue.

_I could do with a good meal… and I _would_ like to know more about him._ "Lead on!" Vikraja grabbed her sword and followed Cones out the door.

~

The two lizards approached the clearing as dusk drew in around them. The soft, pink-orange light of the setting sun behind the forest created a cozy atmosphere. Vikraja was getting more self-conscious as they walked along. The sword was nothing but an awkward weight, and it was constantly getting in the way. And it needed a sheath.

As they came up to her cart, Vikraja could feel the tension emanating from Cones. "What iz it? Are the Dizeazel and hiz kit alright? Why did nobeazt care that I left?" She began to stiffen, eyes drawing down to slits as she flicked her tongue out at her fellow lizard. He was off. _This_ was off.

"Dominic and Ella are zafe in Belette'z bazement. Don't worry about them." Cones answered. He hesitated a moment, then continued, a hurried whisper-hiss. "But you have to run. The Zentinelz wanted me to kill you. They don't truzt you, Vikraja. The Redwallerz zent you, and Triztram thinkz that you are zpying on uz." Vikraja hissed a curse, but Cones cut in again, dodging the punch she threw at him. "I like you Vik – I really do. That'z why I want you to leave. Run far, Vikraja!" Cones spun and fled back toward Rillrock.

"Wait! Conez! Wait!" Vikraja's voice was swallowed by the darkness. "I'm not a zpy," she added quietly, after he was out of earshot. Vikraja gathered up her cart and started to run. It was all she could do.

~

Vikraja stopped at the edge of a stand of pine trees to catch her breath. She had been running for what seemed like ages, though the sky was still littered with stars.

_I should have checked my cart before I left!_ She hoped nothing had been taken. Vikraja started rummaging through her things, just to be sure everything was in its proper place—it was, including the empty tin of cocoa and Ella's blanket. _But wait! Is it gone? Where is my journal? It can't be missing!_

Vikraja found the journal at the bottom of her cart, under the remaining firesticks. _I never meant for you to be mizuzed..._ She sat down on a soft patch of grass and began writing.

_Who is this mouse in my dream? Why does he claim to be the sword's master? Where am I going? There are so many things I don't understand about this. I shouldn't even worry about it, All these warm-bloods and their insanity. And now, to be told that I am supposed to be killed? I don't know who to trust—what does Dom know about this, I wonder? Now, I don't know where I am or what to do. I abhor having to admit failure, but perhaps it would be best to go back home, for just a little at least, until the heat dies down. Or I could travel further north. I'm sure I could sell this stupid overgrown hunk of ugly steel on the way, but it would be good to know how to use it..._

Vikraja tucked her journal away and brought out the sword, inspecting it from the deadly blade to the blood channel running through it to the hilt. It was unwieldy and sat strangely in her claws. Slowly, she started to twirl it and slash it through the air. The sword slipped from her claws and went spinning off into the trees. "Zmozh." She tromped over to where it had fallen, tail dragging sullenly.

The monitor bent down, and suddenly she was looking at the footpaws of a furred creature. As she straightened, her eyes rose up the figure of the mouse, studying him curiously. He looked like the mouse from her dream! But, not quite. This creature was short, with brown fur and a lame leg. He wore a robe the same plain green as the beasts at Redwall Abbey.

"How did you get here?" the mouse asked her. "And how did you come by that sword?"

"Who are you?" the lizard countered. "The sword iz mine. I'm a merchant, zee my cart?"

"My name is Micah, and I used to live at Redwall Abbey. That sword belongs to Martin the Warrior, Matthias, and his descendants. They are the Champions of Redwall, the Protectors. It is not yours to wield."

"Thiz Martin, iz he a mouze? And who iz Matthiaz?" There was that word, Champion, again. Could it be that Ella would be a Champion of Redwall? The politics of furred creatures still mystified Vikraja, but she knew that a weasel was considered "vermin" for some reason and that for some other reason that was a bad thing. For some beasts. Vikraja flicked her tongue and cleared the whole messy nonsense from her head as Micah started in.

"Martin was the first Warrior of Redwall. That is his sword. He is now the symbol of Redwall Abbey and chose Matthias and his descendants to carry on his mission. They have all wielded that sword, until me. I cannot properly do battle, and so I came to live here, in the mountains."

_Martin muzt be the mouze from my dream! Maybe thiz one can tell me about him._

So, Vikraja told Micah about her dream. He, in turn, told her the stories of Martin, Matthias, and Mattimeo. They talked until the rising sun lit the sky.

"Martin must have been directing you to me," Micah told the lizard. "He came to me in a dream a little while ago and told me to teach the beast bearing his sword. He must have meant you, though you are not what I imagined. Though I cannot participate in a battle, I was trained to properly wield the sword of Martin."

Vikraja stared at the small mouse, crossing her arms. _Thiz tiny mouze, a zwordzbeazt? And anyway, I'm a merchant, not a zoldier..._ She started to load the sword back into her cart, but she stopped when she saw Ella's blanket. _Hmph. If she'z going to learn from anybeazt, it won't be that dizeazel._ Instead of putting the sword back into her cart, Vikraja pulled out the case with her journal and the blanket. _And thiz thing iz completely ruined—I'll have to zee she getz it back _

Vikraja stood straight and faced the mouse, dipping her head, palms curled upward. "Micah, I am your ztudent now. Teach me zo that I can teach Ella."

"Very well," Micah answered. "Your training starts now. Leave your cart and follow me."

Vikraja paled considerably, and opened her mouth to argue, but knew in her heart that it was useless. Instead, she turned to her cart, splaying her claws against the wood. _I zwear to you, I will come back._ With that thought, she turned and padded off into the pines.


	60. Teach Your Children Well

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 59. Teach Your Children Well  
**

_by Fjord_

Funny the things a bit of weather could do to a chap. Never mind a raging river. Get a few thunderbolts, add a dash of lightning, and nine out of ten times, the effect is very, very frightening, indeed.

With said weather raging above his head, Fjord shot through the woods, sometimes resorting to all-fours to maintain himself in an upright way. The wind howled and snarled, the trees letting through great glops of rain that oozed along his face and gathered at the corners of his eyes to flow, unchecked, down his cheeks. He could feel a whimper of fear, hunger, pain, and exhaustion rising in his throat and swallowed it.

_None of that now, sah. Stiff upper lip! No need to go loosing the bally noggin before that chap with the braining-type thingummy in his paws gets to you. So, wot are the facts? They killed Dàni._ The thought nearly tripped him up. The dancer had only known the hedgehog for three days, but he had been real, _there_, not five minutes ago. He'd even led them in a merry duet. Fjord had thought they might sing together again, maybe Cecil adding his lute for a rousing chorus of "Rystan's Wedding". At least when they were singing, Fjord didn't have to deal with the great pincushion's violent mood swings – in truth, the hare had seen less volatility in a pregnant Flitchaye.

_I say!_ Fjord chided himself as he vaulted a moss-covered log and skidded to a halt. His footclaws sank into the mulch on the forest floor, and he bent over, panting. _Cease and desist that line of thought! Bad form to think ill of a chap making a personal acquaintance of old Martin, wot? No need–_

A flash of lightning painted the world silver, and Fjord caught sight of a figure barreling toward him. With a gentlebeastly yelp of consternation, the hare dug his footpaws into the ground and tried to bound away. Unfortunately, said ground had other ideas about hares and bounding.

The dancer flailed as only one of his paws _shlooped_ out of the muck, the other remaining firmly planted, forcing him into a graceless pirouette. The maneuver did have the benefit of facing him back toward his assailant as another bolt lit the forest, a peal of thunder close on its heels.

The assailant was much closer. In fact, the assailant slammed into Fjord a second later with a crystal-shattering yowl that made his whiskers curl.

_Alastia._ Fjord felt his heart soar like a lead weight strapped to a boulder, which was in turn situated at the apex of a mountain that had just received a hearty shove by a beast of malicious intent.

"Pardon, miss, but as fine as you are to many a puss-in-boots, I rather prefer my horizontal horizons with gels possessed of taller ears and shorter tails, wot?"

"Rabbit!" Before the hare could correct her, the actress forced her muzzle under his jaw and wrapped herself, octopus-like, about his body. "Please," Alastia whimpered. "Please protect me. Th-they killed that brute, and they're coming for me next. I kn-kn-know it!"

With her sniffles threatening outright sobs, Fjord did the only thing he could think of: Opened his mouth and made a very bad decision. "Of course, Ms. Alastia. Just leave it to me! We Hollyhocks have a history of heroism, wot? Mum's grandsire's cousin's great-grandsire was a member of the Southern Flail Corps at the Battle of Dunlop an owl's age ago. In the blood, don'cha know? We'll have you spiffed and spanned in two shakes of a badger's leg, eh? Just need to let a chap up. There's a gel. Yes, I'll be needing that arm. The other one, too, miss."

Once the cat and hare had disentangled themselves, Fjord rose to unsteady footpaws, a crack of thunder reminding him that a few cracks about their heads were coming due if they didn't get moving again. He extended a paw to Alastia, offering his most gallant grin.

"Milady?"

"You're all muddy."

Fjord squinched up his eyes in confusion. His head was still hurting from the fight in the tunnels, could he have misheard? "So are you."

"But you're muddi_er_. I'm not touching you."

Apparently, the actress' plaintive mewling turned to irascible whinging once she had assured a body between herself and danger. The hare reached down, snagged her wrist, and hauled her up.

"Stop that!" she hissed. "I'm tired. Stand guard while I rest."

"Wot did I do to deserve you?" Fjord wondered, then began dragging the cat along.

It didn't take long for the dancer to become suitably un-muddy with the storm turning every bush into a maniac intent on claiming a lucky 'cat's eye'. Alastia quieted as they moved, Fjord searching for some sort of shelter that wasn't liable to kill them.

"Bother a tree in a thunderstorm," the hare muttered as a flash illuminated a creature-shaped lump just ahead. They couldn't have circled around to Dànaidh again, could they?

Then, Alastia screamed, "Hector! Thera!"

Instead of being sensible and ripping herself free to rush to the sides of her fellow thespians, the wildcat dug her claws into Fjord's arm and yanked him forward with a burst of uncharacteristic strength.

The foxes were unconscious and bleeding, but alive.

"Oh, this is all your fault, rabbit!" the cat lamented as she released him and flumped down beside the pair. "If we hadn't brought you along this would never have happened."

Busy nursing the new scratches on his arm, Fjord chose to ignore her inane babbling. However, the angry shout that rose above the gale did capture his attention.

Through the deluge, Fjord saw a doused rodent wielding a sling and chittering at the trees on the far side of the clearing. "...own he... cowards! Or I'll..." A crash like a gaggle of Dibbuns discovering the Abbey instrument room drowned out the rest of the threat. Fjord thought he knew Aya well enough to fill in the blanks, though.

"Stay here, would you, miss?" Fjord said, setting his jaw and stalking toward the zealous squirrel.

"Don't leave me alone!" the actress cried, beginning to rise.

Fjord whirled about and plastered a grin across his face – or at least he bared his teeth with a slight quirk at the top to suggest some form of camaraderie. It was difficult to achieve even that, however, given the prim donna's contemptible disposition.

"I shall return directly, Ms. Alastia. Just going to pop over and have a chat with Ms. Aya about priorities, wot? Give a shout if you need me. Toodle pip! And remember, a nod's as good as a wink to a blind badger." He tapped his snout and left before she could protest.

Drawing near the incensed squirrel, Fjord began to pick up the other side of a dialogue. He could see pine marten-shaped shadows skulking in the upper branches of a tree that stood well apart from the others in the forest. They would either need to climb down or make a terrific leap to escape.

"I won't hurt you if you come down and let me tie you up nicely."

"Think she can do anything nicely?" Gergreg asked.

"Chew glass for brekkers and spit fire for lunch?" Gergreg suggested.

Aya loosed the payload of her sling at the pair and their snickering broke off with a screech.

"Wench! Gergreg's bleeding!"

"Well, now, isn't that a pity? I'd meant to break his arm." Even with her back to him, Fjord could hear the smirk in the lady squirrel's voice as she loaded another stone.

"What ho, Ms. Aya!"

She spun and hurled the stone in her sling at him without preamble. Fjord let his martially-honed reflexes take over, rolling left and hopping up before she could reload.

"Look, miss, I know we've had our differences, but really!"

"Who is it?" Gergreg demanded.

"It's the rabbit," Gergreg replied. "Think he'll survive?"

"No."

"Oh, I'm all aflutter and afloat with such generous encouragement, wot?" Fjord shouted at the martens, eyeing the squirrel before him as she reached for another projectile. "Now, Ms. Aya, that would be a bad idea."

"Oh?" she sneered. "And why's that, rabbit?"

Fjord felt blood beginning to color his ears red. Everybeast he'd come across in the past fifteen minutes, friend and foe alike, had called him that detestable word. A chap had his limits. "Not a rabbit, miss. Common misconception. Still, best not to repeat it, eh? Full-blooded hare. Never set footpaw in a warren, you see. And of course the eyes are all different. Have to be a bit barmy to miss that."

Aya snorted, then turned back to the Gergregs. "You're next, rabbit. Just stay there."

"I'm not a bleeding rabbit!" Fjord snarled, lunging forward and grabbing the squirrel's forearm before she could bring her sling up.

She glared at him, the rain vaporizing before her heated gaze. "Let go. Now."

"He's definitely dead." As if to signal the Fates' agreement, a bolt lit the scene and thunder boomed around them. Fjord saw for the first time that Aya – dripping, imperious, buck-toothed, _livid_ Aya – resembled another lady squirrel who had so offended his sensibilities as to lead him to swear.

"No."

_What are you doing, Fj?_ Sylvi's voice cried in his head. _She's a wolf! Run!_

He was too tired to run, though, and his nerves had taken a beating from all sides. Dittany, the river, betraying Cecil, June's madness, Hector leaving him to die, Shelton, Duskwatcher, the storm, Dànaidh, Alastia, the wolves... it was all too much for a fire dancer just trying to reach his wife.

Aya jerked, but Fjord held fast.

"I _will_ hurt you," she told him. "Now stand aside and–"

"You're really are short a kettle at teatime, aren't you, miss?"

She balled her free paw up and swung it around, but the hare caught it, fighting her down.

"If you hadn't noticed, there's a bally thunderstorm on. Oh, and let's not forget the beasts roaming the forest _smashing in the bloody heads of every creature they come across!_"

"That doesn't matter," Aya snarled back. "I want my reward, and you're not going to stop me, you spineless rabbit!"

_"You don't deserve her, you spineless rabbit!" Dittany spat, clutching Mary's letter to her chest. The rich carpet, canopy bed, and bow and arrow leaning in the far corner indicated the room off the hallway belonged to a visiting squirrel dignitary – perhaps even Lady Willa herself. Fjord suspected the squirrel queen and Abbess got on famously. "Now th' both o' you step aside. I won't tell you again, Mr. Hollyhocks: You're not gettin' this letter 'til you've earned it."_

"Ye'd let her call ye spineless?" a shade to his right demanded. "What sort o' beast are ye, then?"

Fjord released Aya's paws, reared back, and slammed his fist into the side of her muzzle. "Stop saying that, Dittany, _you self-important little harlot!_"

_"That's more like it, matey," the shade encouraged. "Now show her ye–"_

"Ssstop, Fjord!" The memory fractured, an adder shooting through the crack and wrapping itself around the hare from his footpaws up to his eyes, the golden scales obscuring his vision as he felt something pressed into his paw. "You don't want to sssee," the adder assured. Fjord could feel it constricting as it drew back and–

"M-M-Ms. Aya... I-I'm..." Fjord stared at the paw that had just dared to strike a lady, his insides writhing. It had to be some strange growth at the end of his arm, something he'd contracted from those batty chaps. This paw could not possibly belong to a dashing, ever-courteous hare such as Fjord Hollyhocks. "Sor–"

Aya's kick stole the air from Fjord's stomach as he crumbled to ground, doubled-up and gaping like a landed trout.

"Don't. Call. Me. That. Name!" The squirrel punctuated each word with a vicious blow.

The dancer tried to curl up, but her footpaw stamped down on his pelvis before he could turn to his side. He would have howled if he'd had the breath. The pressure withdrew for a moment, and as Fjord stared up, eyes blurred with rain and tears, he saw where her next hit would land and tried to scream, squeezing his eyes shut against the inevitable pain.

It never came.

"Hells, bells, and buckets of blood, Fjord, I think I've seen jellies with more backbone than you," Gergreg's voice mocked. "You don't _apologize_ in the middle of a fight." The hare cracked open one lid and saw the marten twins had Aya face-down two steps away, her body thrashing as if laboring under the delusion that she could shift two well-built vermin from her backside if she had enough willpower.

"Give him _some_ credit," Gergreg protested. "Got a shot off, didn't he?"

"Not much of one if she hit back."

"Fair point."

Before Fjord could draw breath enough to refute such uncouth disparagements, Gergreg continued, "Anyway, what do we do with her now?"

"Kill her." The martens and hare looked up to find themselves with a rapt audience of three. Alastia stood just behind Hector and Thera, the rain accentuating the lines of vindictive scorn that had carved a comfortable home into the wildcat's features.

"No!" The hare wheezed, struggling to push himself up to his elbows. He couldn't stand yet – that would be his next great endeavor – but the old windbags had finally inflated.

"Why not?" Hector asked, the blood on his face trickling away with the rain. "She looks like she's done a fine number on you, hare."

"She's... dash it!" Fjord gasped. "She's just a silly... silly gel who's a bit fixated. We can't... she's with... Cecil. Where's Cecil?" He whipped his head around, expecting the bard to stroll from the wood, plunking out an aquatic ballad to match the setting – something about torrents and tossers might be appropriate.

"I'm more interested in where Silver and June are," the fox growled, but the words held no bite. In fact, Hector's visage looked positively bite_less_. Fjord suspected the copious amounts of life stuffs slicking his face might have something to do with that. "If those maniacs catch hold of them..."

"They're going to kill us all!" Alastia wailed, her cruel streak veering back to the familiar territory of first-degree pessimism. Fjord couldn't much blame her, times being what they were: Bad.

"I say," the hare said, rolling to his side and suppressing a groan before casting a suspicious glare about the clearing, "the gel has a point. Not much we can do in this bally mess with chaps threatening to beat us over the head. Cecil... Well, I'd bet my jolly bonnet blue that Cecil and the others are holed up in some hovel awaiting a break in the storm and a cessation of the bally hostilities going on around here. Wot say we find a spot of dryish ground and bunker down?"

"Better than running like rats with our tails cut off," Hector agreed, then directed his attention to the Gergregs. "Get her up, gag her, and bring her with us. She might make a good bargaining chip with the other one."

Gergreg used his belt to secure Aya's paws behind her back, then hauled her up, the squirrel spitting and snorting the muck that had accumulated in her mouth and nose. "I don't owe you anything, rabbit," she hissed, snapping out another kick that clipped the hare's backside before the marten could pull her out of range.

Fjord had enough energy to grace the world with another gentlebeastly yelp.

Gergreg ripped off his hat and stuffed it in the squirrel's mouth, using his brother's belt to secure the makeshift gag in place.

Meanwhile, the be-hatted, slightly bloody Gergreg helped Fjord to his footpaws and let the hare lean on him, though not without a wary glint in his eye. Aya put up a token amount of resistance, but the other marten held her fast, frog-marching her along in Hector's wake.

O~O~O

The troupe found shelter in the hollowed remains of a great oak, its trunk long acquainted with the forest floor. The storm peaked and gradually diminished some hundred pained gasps later.

Fjord found his head resting on Thera's thigh, his stomach protesting any prolonged attempt at a seated position. The vixen had enough kindness in her not to shove him away as she allowed her husband to rip off parts of her sleeve as bandages.

When the drizzle had become a mist, Hector ordered the be-hatted Gergreg and Fjord to search for Silver and June.

"Dashed unfair that," the hare protested. "Wot sort of chap sends a wounded fellow to go running about, shouting at the top of his bally lungs? And wot about those chaps who knocked you round the head and..." _and killed Dàni?_

Nobeast spoke for a moment, then the fox glanced at his wife, her head bandaged and her arm cradled in a sling. His eyed narrowed as he prodded the hare's stomach. Fjord bit down hard on the colorful curse his mind had conjured for just such an occasion – it wouldn't do to inform the fox of the detriments inherent to his species in the area of generative pleasure.

"Dànaidh got what was coming to him," Hector growled. "And if you see the one who did it, run." Then, his face softened "Please, Fjord. You've got the best ears out of the lot of us. I need you to listen for our lads."

Fjord acquiesced, sensing that torture-by-proddage would ensue should he refuse. There was Cecil to think about, as well. It took some ten minutes for the pair to discover a trail of broken branches and crushed leaves too regular to have been the work of the storm. It led to another clearing where the earth had come out in clumps and lay strewn about. A bit of poking and prodding revealed a muddy cap belonging to one Silver the Ferret.

Somehow, Fjord suspected the kit wouldn't miss it.

"You thinking what I'm thinking?" Gergreg wondered, pointing to more broken branches marking a clear path out of the clearing.

The hare bent and retrieved the broken remains of a white feather that should have been affixed to the hat and head of a lute-playing squirrel. "I'm going to need a 'jolly bonnet blue' to trade in."

O~O~O

"We have to go after them," Hector determined once the remainder of the troupe and Aya had assembled in the new clearing. "If Silver's been taken, it's a fair bet June's with him."

"But wot about Salamandastron?" Fjord's midsection had suffered trying time due to the memory of Mary's letter. He owed her that much consideration.

"Hang Salamandastron! Silver and June are more important than your wife's little sister."

Fjord blinked. "Did you... read Mary's letter?"

Hector snorted.

"This is important!" The hare reached out and grasped the lapels of the fox's dirty coat, pulling him in. "It got ruined in the river, wot did it say?"

Hector turned his muzzle away and glanced at the hare from the corner of his eye. "Find my lads first, then I'll tell you."

"That's blackmail!"

"Still leaves the question of what to do with her." The hatless Gergreg indicated Aya with a jerk of his claw. The gag had ensured her silence, but Hector motioned for the marten to remove it, simultaneously shoving Fjord off and away.

"Well, now, lass. What are we to do? You won't leave us alone, you won't die quietly, and your little friend is gone: dead or dragged off with our lads. What do you have to say to that."

"You're all under arrest by order of the Skipper of–"

Hector strode up to the squirrel and slapped her with an open paw. Fjord winced, the ache in his knuckles flaring from when he'd taken a much harsher approach to quieting the squirrelmaid.

"None of that now, my lady, unless you relish the thought of Gergreg here finding a lovely branch to test on your head." He sighed. "I would release you, but you'd just start following us again."

"It's a rummy situation," Fjord interjected, speaking as much to Aya's circumstances as his own.

On the one paw, getting to Mary would answer any questions about her letter, and on the other, Hector knew what was going on and didn't seem to deem it a high priority. On the other paw, there was the fact that the fox had shown an exquisite lack of prioritization skills when it came to Fjord's best interests as of late. And on the other other paw – if a chap were so blessed with a third appendage of the grabbing variety – Cecil was his friend and in immediate, real danger. He'd abandoned him twice already; third time might be the charm that ended in a death toll for his musically-inclined partner.

_Well, that decides it, then._

"Wot if you helped us find Cecil and the others, Ms. Aya? You seem a fine tracker. Found us right enough, I should jolly well say."

The squirrel's face contracted in what Fjord could only take for scorn, and she opened her mouth to berate him, then shut it again, considering something. A pout replaced the first look, then a small nod followed by a shake of the head. Her maw parted again and she said, "I'll help you find these creatures if you all agree to come back to Redwall."

"I don't think you quite understand the position you're in, my lady."

"I understand well enough that if that trail goes cold, you're going to need a beast who knows forests. Last I checked that's squirrels."

Hector's brow creased as he cast his gaze at the disturbed meadow, then down at the abused cap in his paws. "And if the choice was between helping us and being killed?"

"Do you really want to test just how spiteful I can be?"

"I think we're straying from the point," Fjord hopped in again. "Every minute we spend arguing is another those chaps are high-tailing it to parts unknown. Ms. Aya, how many of us do you have to bring in for this reward Cecil mentioned?"

"One of you would get me at least a few coins."

"Right. Well, then I'll volunteer to bite the arrow, as it were, then."

"After the fuss you made, you're going to come back to Redwall?" the squirrelmaid deadpanned. "Just like that?"

"Just like that," he agreed. "Can't leave old Cec in the lurch. Mary will have to wait, wot? Do we have a deal?"

Aya considered him for a long moment, then wetted her lips with her tongue as if the hare were a particularly juicy pasty. He tried not to blink under the scrutiny.

"Deal."

"Jolly good!" The fire dancer held out his paw to shake on the matter, but Aya only glared. It took a moment for him to realize that she was still bound. "Ah... right. On–urgh!" He shot out his claw toward the trail, but curled it back swiftly as his midsection screamed in protest.

That wasn't the only part of him screaming, though. The hare's genteel spirit had set up a racket in the part of his brain devoted to affairs of the conscience. Telling Aya he would happily return with her when he had no intention of doing so didn't sit well with this side of him.

_It's not lying,_ Fjord reasoned, frowning as they set off. His father had warned him about lying to ladies.

_'Dissembling, though, Fjord,'_ Antero Hollyhock's voice sounded in his mind, _'well, that's completely different, wot?'_

_No,_ Sylvi's voice countered. _It's not._

Bother parents who told a chap two different things.


	61. Dagger of the Mind

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 60. Dagger of the Mind  
**

_by Danaidh_

_"Eeeeeeuuuuuu…errrrrrrr…thuuuuuuuuuuh…aaayyyytaaayyyyy…"_

Drowning…again…

Corinth, the pain—!

"Eeeeeeuuuuuu…"

I am coming, and now I am going.

Where am I going?

…I smell…spices and strawberries!

The Haze…

'Yes, we are here.'

"Eeeeeeuuuuuu…errrrrrrr…"

I feel…

'You have been injured.'

I feel like I'm spinning…down…

'The injury is severe.'

"Errrrrrrr…thuuuuuuuuuuh…"

What is that?

'We are accelerating the healing process.'

"Aaayyyytaaayyyyy…"

Who's saying that?

'Nobeast is speaking.'

But…I heard a voice…

'You are delirious. Your mind is a mass of confusion. We are repairing the mistakes.'

"Eeeeeeuuuuuu…"

I can't…I can't seem…

'Breathe now…up you go…'

"Eeeeeeuuuuuu…errrrrrrr…thuuuuuuuuuuh…"

Ow. I felt that—pain!

"AAAYYYYTAAAYYYYY!"

OW!

Sunflash had a little bird, little bird, little bird; Sunflash had a little bird, the kestrel's name was Skarlath…

Dànaidh twitched. His consciousness swam above and around him, swirling down and collapsing into his prone form like a boulder in a valley. Hot pain greeted him from every inch, but as he inhaled, the pain retracted and flooded his head and left arm. He felt unwanted air rising up in his lungs…no, it wasn't air, it was water! His lungs heaved, and he coughed violently, expelling water from his lungs in several short, concussive bursts. The pain wrapped around his temples forced his body back onto the soggy grass, and he felt his mind descend back beyond the confines of his skull as it lay prone again.

_Come back!_ he commanded.

His mind ignored his voice. He summoned his strength but found none. His reserves were dry and empty, void of anything his will could conjure. He had nothing left. His heartbeat slowed and his breath caught in his throat. He was going to die.

_'You are not going to die.'_

The sweet, spicy scent filled his nostrils again, and he felt a cool, wet cloud cover his body. The Haze wrapped itself around his consciousness, coursed through his strained tendons and exhausted muscles, flowed through his constricted veins and pushed blood from his heart to his every extremity. It doubled back and encouraged the air in his throat to descend down to his lungs and ended its trek through his eyelids, breaking the seal of sleep the night air had glazed on them and filling them with the brilliant, numbing power of daylight. The sun's rays gleamed across his vision and bathed his world with sudden spouts of luminous, exceptional colors. The Haze fought with his senses and strained against his optic nerves, and suddenly he could see shapes.

Leaves dancing in a calm breeze. Thin droplets of rain dripping from the trees. Whispers of clouds trickling across a deep blue sky. The Haze filtered all that he saw, keeping its presence limited to the extreme edges of his vision, where light and matter streamed away at angles disappearing into infinity.

_'We are here to help you.'_

Pain again, in his left arm. The onset came quickly and washed over the limb; he felt blood run down towards his paw. He sensed movement just beyond his peripheral. He grimaced and pulled against the dead weight of his body; The Haze lifted him slowly from the grass until he sat upright, supported by his right paw against the moist ground. The exertion made him pant, and he knew The Haze struggled to keep him alert. It had brought him this far; he knew it could adjust.

Pain again, in his left arm. The onset came quickly and washed over the limb; he felt blood run down towards his paw. He sensed movement just beyond his peripheral. He grimaced and pulled against the dead weight of his body; The Haze lifted him slowly from the grass until he sat upright, supported by his right paw against the moist ground. The exertion made him pant, and he knew The Haze struggled to keep him alert. It had brought him this far; he knew it could adjust.

A dark bird hopped back, retreating from Dànaidh. The bird's bill had a small red stain at the tip of the beak. Its eyes were wide in shock.

"Father's Feathers—you're…you're alive!" The bird's voice was pitched high, as surprised as his expression.

"Yeeeeeh…" Dànaidh wanted to say 'Yes,' but his jaw wouldn't cooperate. He struggled to close his mouth and dribbled saliva down his chin.

"But—but but but…" the bird cawked. "But that's impossible. You bled to death, I know it. I smelled it from over the glade. I perched on that branch—" He gestured to a distant branch that Dànaidh couldn't see; he took the bird's word for it, knowing he couldn't turn his head and stay conscious, and let the continuing chatter echo around him, "—and watched you until the storm died out. You didn't move at all. Nothing. No snoring, no moaning, no twitching—nothing. Beaks of the Dark Forest, I thought the twitch was me hitting a nerve, not—"

"Ssss," Dànaidh attempted, "Sssssooorry."

"Sorry? Sorry!" the bird said, disgusted. "Do you recognize this?" He flapped in the general direction of his neck. "Order of the Well-Clensed Claw! You—You almost damned me to a life of _scraping duty_, you thrice-sodded owl pellet! Sorry! I mean, the nerve—Live Flesh! What that could do to me, having to…"

"I'm alllllive."

"I don't suppose I could convince you otherwise?" The bird cocked his head and gave the hedgehog a hard look. "I mean, I haven't had a beakful all night, and I was in that tree, err…watching over you. I mean, it would be only polite if you could, you know…"

"No," Dànaidh said. He flapped his jaw and yawned. "I think I'll make it."

"You lice-ridden bastard," the bird spat. He flexed his wings and turned, sneering. "I hope you're caught in a brair patch by a hawk's nest. Fed to fledglings seems a fitting fate."

Dànaidh leaned back, allowing the sun to warm his damp fur. "Thank you for waking me."

"Go choke on a rib!" the bird yelled, flapping his wings and flying off.

Dànaidh snorted and sat unmoving for what seemed like ages, until he felt his stomach growl. He opened his eyes and looked around. Not far from where he'd ended up, several berried bushes had sprouted in a natural hedge. He frowned as he put his weight on his footpaws, and they repaid him by buckling and dropping him face-first into the tall grass. The soft landing did little to quell his frustration. He pushed himself upwards with his paws, heaved and retched into the grass, and fell over onto his left side. Intense, piercing pain shot through his right temple, and he raised a trembling paw up to the pained spot.

He felt something soft and sticky, and it squished under a firmer press. His paw came back a crimson mess; he'd been bloodied before—broken bones protruding through his fur, shattered teeth, a broken snout, gashed forehead, even coughing up blood…but he'd never felt something _inside_ before, and the thought caused him to shudder. He traced the gash with a careful paw, and marveled at the length and width of it. The blow should have killed him, knocking his head clean from his neck and away to land somewhere in the forest; instead, it exposed a flap of skin and fur that hung from his scalp like a fold of fabric. He could only imagine what it looked like to somebeast else, especially if his face was covered in blood.

He sighed and grit his teeth. He _would_ stand up! He grunted against his weight and pushed; The Haze added its collected strength, and Dànaidh sat up quicker than last time. He put both paws out in front of him and pushed up with his footpaws; his knees trembled and his legs wobbled, but his body stood. It felt good to be on his footpaws again. He allowed himself a quick laugh before carefully plodding over to the berry bushes.

He grabbed pawfuls at a time, squishing a good number under his powerful grip but still managing to fit a majority of the tiny fruit into his salivating mouth. The juice was tart and potent, but a welcomed relief from the staleness hunger brought. He gobbled on the fruit, allowing the juice to run out of the corners of his mouth, staining his cheeks and chin with its dark fluid—_it was delicious!_ He ate until he felt satisfied, wiping at his darkened lips with the back of a paw.

"You…"

He turned his head. "That voice," he said aloud.

_'There's nobeast there,'_ The Haze assured.

"But I heard it—I'm sure of it." Dànaidh scanned the horizon, searching for anything that could be the source of the strange words he kept hearing.

"You are…" The voice danced on the breeze, carrying no weight of its own but allowing its sweet, mellow sound to warm Dànaidh's ears like vocal honey. It had a power behind it, a strength brought with a willed determination and an easy, encouraging disposition. This was not the sound of an enticer or enemy; it was more like the sound of an old friend long gone…

"Who's there?" Dànaidh called. He squinted and shook his head lightly. There was something different he was hearing—not the strange voice, but his own. Something had changed with his voice.

_'We're influencing your voice,'_ The Haze answered. _'Whereas we were primarily responsible for your lower skills—reflexes, combative maneuvers, intuition and aggression—we are now controlling your higher functions as well: intellect, deductive reasoning, memory and comprehension.'_

"And language skills? No dialect?"

_'Consider it an "added bonus."'_

A gust of wind blew up suddenly next to Dànaidh, stirring the leafy branches of the picked bushes into a rustling chorus. The warm voice danced around him, as if speaking from every angle.

"You are the gateway, Dànaidh."

Dànaidh's eyes danced back and forth. He and the wind were the only guests of the knoll. He inhaled slowly and smelled something familiar…fire and stone…

"Who are you?" Dànaidh asked.

The wind burst around him, blowing over his body and ruffling his clothing. He closed his eyes at the sudden gale and disappeared into his memories within the wind. It was warm and fragrant, and filled him with a nostalgia of being back near the hearth as a kit, as Muríol kneaded a fresh lump of dough under a garland of wild lavender and hewn logs snapped in the bright fire.

"I am a friend, a comforter, a prophet, a conqueror," the voice said. "I am, and have been. Come, and we will speak of things to be…"

"Come where?" Dànaidh asked. He opened his eyes slowly.

He stood in the middle of a wooded glade, far from where he'd awaken. He scoffed as he looked around, unfamiliar with his surroundings.

"I can't believe—" Dànaidh began.

"See," the voice commanded from behind.

Dànaidh turned around, and gasped.


	62. Good Guys, Bad Guys

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 61. Good Guys, Bad Guys  
**

_by Cecil  
_

"Are you almost done?"

Cecil grunted in response as he carefully carved his way through his remaining bonds with Fjord's knife. The silver blade tore the tightly-knotted rope around his paws to shreds with ease, flashing an orange light as it finished its task, and the fire's light met its smooth surface once more.

The squirrel breathed a sigh of relief as he stood up and stretched his muscles. After he was sure the circulation had returned to all of his body, the bard toyed with the knife in his paw and turned to the two suspects. He grinned. "Well, that worked well," Cecil said, spinning the blade between his claws skillfully before accidentally dropping it. Rolling his eyes, he recovered it and moved closer to the pair.

"Hurry up, will you?" Silver muttered quietly as Cecil began slicing through Juniper's bonds. The ferret glanced around the squirrel's body anxiously, staring with wide eyes at the campsite. "You might not have much time left."

"I am quite aware of that, Master Silver," Cecil replied, cutting far more swiftly than he had before.

He cast a quick glance over his shoulder. The kitnappers hadn't emerged from the tent yet, which meant he still had some time left; whether it was a few minutes or mere seconds, the squirrel could not tell. Cecil slapped himself mentally as if he were Alajake. In his excitement at finding Fjord's knife still in his pocket, he hadn't bothered to think of a plan or even hold off their escape until their captors were asleep. Instead, he had cut through his bonds without thinking, the idea of simply escaping bouncing back and forth in his head like a metronome.

And freedom. The bard found that his eyes had set on the woodlander kits at the far side of the camp. There were three of them total: a hedgehog, a mouse, and a shrew- all whimpering and holding back tears as they inched away from the captor's tent as far as was possible and gaped at him with pleading eyes. Cecil flashed them a smile and nodded. There was no way he was leaving them here. Their parents were almost certainly worried sick… if they were still alive.

Cecil cast a venomous glare at the vermin's tent. _I would not put it past them… Murdering and pillaging… that's all that satisfies types like them._

The word 'murder' engraved itself in Cecil's head.

"Erm, Cecil, why'd you stop?" Juniper's voice cut through his thoughts like a sword.

The squirrel turned and realized he had ceased his task of freeing the otter. "Oh… I… uh, suppose that…" He trailed off. Murderers. Dittany had been… and… Cecil looked over his two companions. Two of the suspects were directly in front of him, captured by vermin and bound head to tail to a tree as he had been. Why was he helping them?

Juniper was brawny for his age. He could have easily overpowered the almost-fragile abbess and shoved a dagger through her heart. Silver, however, was young and of a normal muscular build for his age, which made the possibility of him being able to pull off such a feat less likely. But, he _was_ a vermin and from what Cecil could gather from how the lad talked, he was smart for his age.

"Cecil," Silver snapped.

Cecil hesitated, not quite sure whether he should continue cutting them free with his knife or pull it away and flee.

They could have murdered Dittany.

He imagined himself freeing the kits and reuniting them with their parents or taking them to Redwall if they didn't have any, leaving the other two beasts at the mercy of the kitnappers. It would be a just punishment for a heartless killer. A fitting end for the beasts who took his love away from him.

The squirrel smiled.

Almost like the ending of a terrific ballad where the dashing hero saves the day and the villain gets his just desserts.

Cecil wiped the idea from his head. He wouldn't get a ballad made for him. Not if he left two beasts who might have been innocent behind. If they were guilty… they would receive justice the right way.

Without further hesitation, Cecil resumed his task. "Terribly sorry, truly. I… I, er… was thinking," he muttered.

"About what?" Silver snapped.

Cecil sliced through the fibers of the thick robe more frantically. "You know…_things,_" he explained.

"Things? What kind of things? This is no time to be thinking about things," Juniper replied quickly, emphasizing his point with a glance at the tent.

"Oh, this and that… that and this," the squirrel answered. He furrowed his brow. The explanation surprisingly made sense. He shrugged.

Cecil tried hard to suppress a shout of glee as his knife finally broke through the last fibers of the thick rope.

Juniper rubbed his wrists.

"Does it really hurt?" Cecil asked.

"No, it's just a part I picked up from _The Prisoner's Dilemma_."

"Uh, Juniper… Cecil," Silver mumbled. The kit gulped.

"Well, well. What do we have here?"

Cecil turned his head slowly, hardly daring to breathe as he locked eyes with Mordred. "Well," the squirrel began, trying to buy some time. "Uh… you see, Mord- may I call you Mord? It makes you sound highly sophisticated… regal… and powerful. Like… like you could crush somebeast's bones to dust if you tried hard enough," he chattered. The squirrel got to his footpaws and slowly took a step away from the vermin. The fox took a step forward.

Cecil frowned.

"Well, you see, Mord, I found this knife in my pocket," he continued, presenting his newfound weapon. "And…"

Juniper joined in. "He thought you should know about it."

Mordred switched his gaze to Cecil.

"Yes!" the bard exclaimed. "I thought you should … wait, what?"

"Well, you know, you can't have prisoners posessing weapons. Otherwise what's stopping them from cutting themselves free and slaughtering you all in your sleep? Can't have that. So I said, 'You need to give that knife to Mordred, he'll know what to do with it,' but Cecil got cold footpaws. 'I can't give it to him. He'll know I have it and then I'll just get into even more trouble,' he said. So I offered to paw it over myself, and, well, that's why you don't see me tied up, either," the otter finished.

"Wow, really?" Cecil asked.

"Come on, Cecil, you were there," the otter said, annoyed. He leaned over to Mordred, twirled his paw around his head and stumbled a bit.

Cecil frowned.

Mordred turned to the squirrel in consternation. "How … noble? … of ye?"

"Yes, noble! That's a word for it!" Cecil said.

"So, ah, can I have the dagger?"

"Oh, yes. About that…" The squirrel thought. "No."

Mordred frowned, then drew his dagger. "Rufus, Trothfang, Trobes. Get out here."

"Run, you idiots! Run!" Silver screamed.

The bard didn't need to be told twice. He and Juniper took to their footpaws, dashing into the surrounding forest, and tripping over brush and undergrowth in their hasty flight.

Cecil gripped Fjord's knife firmly in his paw, taking a cautious backwards glance as he ran. Juniper labored a short distance behind, easily outmatched by the agility of the squirrel's species.

The bard gulped.

_They_ had a squirrel.

A sudden urge jolted inside of Cecil's body, telling his footpaws to move faster. _'Gates!_ he screamed in his head, trying to obey the almost-impossible command.

Not watching where he was going, Cecil felt his footpaw snag under a tree root. "'Gates. Not now!" he yelped before his face hit the dirt. Cecil glared daggers at it. "We meet again, foul root."

_Thunk_

Cecil looked to where a dagger had just buried itself in the trunk of the tree in front of him, its hilt the starting point for an invisible line that had run straight through the squirrel's middle only moments before he had tripped. He gulped and turned back to the root. "I mean, majestic, merciful, gracious root."

He regained to his footpaws, casting a quick backwards glance. His gaze followed the dagger's invisible line. Juniper had managed to avoid the thrown blade and was catching his breath a short distance away, but Cecil's sight rested on the beast behind the otter. For a moment, the bard's and Rufus' eyes met.

In that moment, realization flooded into Cecil's head. The kidnappings, they made sense. Why the lad was associating himself with bloodthirsty vermin made sense. Dittany's murder, all of it made sense. In that moment, the pieces of the puzzle fit together, and the picture on the box came into focus in the squirrel's head.

He was looking into the eyes of one of Dittany's murderers.

-.0.-

Cecil didn't know how long he had run after that. All he knew was that his footpaws hurt and he wanted to collapse to the floor. Without a word, he satisfied his desire, falling to his knees and panting to catch his breath.

Juniper slumped down a short distance away, settling down by the roots of a young ash sapling. He panted, pink tongue lolling out of his mouth like a wretched worm.

Cecil glanced at him groggily. "Do you suppose… do you suppose we have lost them?" he asked, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt in case they needed to flee.

The otter shrugged weakly.

"We must make haste then and-"

"Why'd you hesitate?" the otter interrupted, his swelling gone and his voice actually understandable.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You could've cut Silver free with the time you had. You could have cut everybeast free. Why didn't you? Why'd you stop?" he reiterated. Cecil detected a scowl in his voice.

"I… I," Cecil stammered.

"You what?"

"I don't know," he answered. "I… hesitated. I saw the kits and I saw you, and I thought about Dit- the Abbess' murder and I…" He trailed off. "I…"

"You thought we did it, didn't you?" the otter replied.

"I… what… how?"

The otter smiled at his reaction, as though he expected it. "You cannot pull one past me. Figuring things out, it happens to be in my nature. You might say that when it comes to investigations—" and here, the actor fit an invisible monocle to his eye and pretended to smoke a nonexistent pipe, "—I'm brilliant."

Cecil blinked. Why was he talking like a noble who didn't know how to speak like a gentlebeast correctly? _Bah, 'actors.'_

"Well, I… I simply thought… You were a suspect… so…" he tried to say. "Did you murder Dittany?"

The actor shook his head. "No. I couldn't have done it. I'm trying to figure it out myself. I have a few leads, but nothing of any real substance." Whether Juniper had finished his strange persona or if he was still in the spotlight, Cecil didn't know.

"I don't understand."

"Have you ever seen the play, _A Vermin's Reckoning?_" Juniper changed the subject.

"Uh, no, I have not," Cecil answered.

"It's a wonderful story about a cowardly, runty ex-hordesbeast, named Servpaw, who wants to conquer the northlands," Juniper explained. "Well, Servpaw, the villain, gets himself mixed up in the wrong company and ends up killing the owner of a tavern.

"Eventually, Servpaw manages to form up a small horde, so he decides to attack a tiny village on the coast. Well, while pillaging through some cottages, he finds a family of voles. He's right at his cue to kill them when the father stands up to protect his wife and kits. And it's in that moment that he realizes the wrong he's done and he knows that he can't kill them-"

"I do not mean to be a bother, but could you please get to the point, Master Juniper?" Cecil asked.

"Point is," Juniper said, annoyed by the interruption, "he realizes he's the villain so he tries to redeem himself. It really is a wonderful play. I need to ask Hector if we can perform it sometime," Juniper finished.

Cecil's jaw dropped and his eyes sat agape. Juniper had called himself a brilliant investigator, and in the mystery surrounding Dittany's murder, that made him the hero. Was he? Was he saying that… _I'm the villain?_

The squirrel looked down at the ground and fiddled with the feather in his cap. His claws touched air. That was strange... one of his feathers was missing. But he couldn't be the villain, could he? He hadn't killed Dittany. He wasn't the murderer. He had left Redwall to find out who was. How could _he_ be the villain?

No, Cecil could see why. The kits. Silver. They hadn't escaped because of him. He had wasted time, selfishly thinking of running away and saving only himself. It was a something a coward would do.

Something a villain would do.

Cecil knew what Juniper meant.

He didn't want to be a villain.

"Juniper," he said, raising his head, "you said that Servpaw _tried_ to redeem himself. Did he?"

The otter smiled.

"Aye, it's the best part."

-.0.-

Cecil was tired.

Cecil was hungry.

Cecil was scared.

And yet some strange force had driven him back to the kitnapper's camp, clutching Fjord's knife in a nervous deathgrip.

With pale moonlight shining down on his back, the bard cautiously peeked around the tree the duo hid behind, the blade quivering along with his paw. Only one of the kitnappers, Trobes, was still in the camp _watching the remaining prisoners_... or in the hulking rat's opinion on the task - sleeping.

Cecil turned back to Juniper. "That play… how does it end exactly?"

"He dies."

"Oh… wonderful," Cecil choked out. He turned back to the campsite. "Are you ready?"

Juniper nodded and followed after the squirrel as he crept into the camp. All was silent throughout the clearing, the only sound penetrating the still air was the crackling of charred woodpigeons still roasting over a burning fire and Trobes' resonating snores. Cecil ceased his breathing as he tiptoed past the rat's sleeping form, eyeing the club that hung, ready to be used, by the pawcord from his wrist. The bard struggled not to think of the damage that could be done with such a weapon. Images of his skull smashed to pieces, a mixture of warm, crimson blood and guts seeping out of an open wound on his head, filled his mind.

He shook the thought away hastily.

"I'm going to go and get Silver," Juniper whispered quietly. "You get the kits and be quick about it."

"Okay, I shall."

Cecil gulped.

"Huh?" came a kit's voice as he approached her. A little hogmaid blinked drowsily at him. Cecil quickly put a claw to his snout, signaling for her to be quiet.

He glanced cautiously around him and set to freeing the kit. "I told you I would rescue you, didn't I?" he whispered. "Where are your parents? Do you know?"

"Me, Mama, and Papa live in Red'all," she squeaked softly. "Dere was a big boom sound an' den dey grabbed me."

_'Gates, directly after the explosion?_ There had been rubble from the blast everywhere and a pile of dead bodies to accompany it. That had been three days ago. _These kits may have tombstones already._

"Do not fret, you don't have any reason to worry," he reassured. "Be a good little maid and stay quiet, and I shall get you reunited with them very, very soon."

The maid bobbed her head up and down frantically as the bard finished cutting through her bonds.

Cecil hoisted her up in his arms- careful to avoid her sharp quills- and turned to where Trobes was snoring peacefully. Leaning on a table beside the sleeping rat was the squirrel's lute.

"Now that you're safe," he said to the kit. "I'm going to rescue something o' my own."

The squirrel set the kit back down and slowly crept up to the rat, his knife quivering in his paw. He gulped and sidled cautiously around him, watching his footpaws to make sure he didn't accidently step on the vermin's tail. When he was close enough, Cecil wasted no time and grasped the neck of the instrument, maneuvering it carefully towards him.

"Well, my darling, it's quite good to see that those brutes did not do you _that_ much harm," he said to himself, cradling the instrument close. "Now that that has been taken care of… I must make haste and get back to work."

"Oh, that won't be necessary."

Cecil's eyes widened at the voice. _Just my luck._ The lute dropped from his paws as he turned to face Mordred.

The fox smiled at him. "Well, this was unexpected. I had thought we'd lost you, but here you are. Trobes." The rat blinked. "We're going to need to have a talk about you sleeping on the job later, Trobes." The brute scowled. "So, squirrel, how 'bout that knife? Toss it over here nice and slow."

The squirrel turned to run but was blocked by Trothfang and Rufus. He took a step away from Trobes.

"I wasn't asking, squirrel," Mordred scowled. He grabbed the arm of the kit Cecil had rescued earlier and pressed a dagger to her neck until a small trickle of blood appeared. The hogmaid tried to hide a sob.

Fjord's knife landed next to Mordred's footpaw.

"Heh, good lad." He removed the dagger from her throat by an inch. "Now, where's your friend?"

_'Gates._

Cecil clenched his teeth and took a glance behind him. Rufus and Trothfang were moving closer, drawing weapons from their belts. He didn't have much time left.

"Well, good sir," he started, buying the otter some time, "look around you, and you shall find that he is not here. You see, he kept running and I-"

"There 'e is, beside the tree," Rufus interrupted. A harsh wheezing sound erupted from Trobes' mouth, what the bard assumed was a laugh.

_Rubbish._

Cecil turned to the aforementioned tree. Juniper had stopped his work on untying Silver's bonds and was staring at the spectacle.

"Otter." Cecil heard Mordred shout. He put the dagger back to the kit's throat. "How 'bout you come over and join the party?"

Juniper took a step back.

Mordred pushed the dagger closer.

The otter took another step away.

The fox drew more blood.

Cecil looked around him. _Dittany, what do I do?_ If Juniper took another step, the fox would, without a doubt, kill the kit. He gulped as Trothfang grabbed his arm loosely and put a blade to his neck. _Dittany, I'm about to do something very stupid._

Cecil bucked against Trothfang, slamming his skull hard against the vermin's. Dazed by the blow, the weasel dropped his blade. The bard acted fast and grabbed the neck of his lute. He spun and swung the instrument like a club, and, with a comical twang, it slammed into the beast's skull, laying him flat.

_So, if I die…_

The squirrel ran, barreling past a confused Trobes and tackling an even more startled Mordred. He struggled against the fox, trying to hold down the beast while staying his dagger paw and resisting the rain of punches coming from the vermin's free paw.

_If they kill me…_

He turned his head to where June stood, bewildered by the events unfolding.

"RUN!" he shouted. He smiled in satisfaction as the otter obeyed his command.

"Get after him!" Mordred yelled to Rufus from where he was pinned.

Cecil sensed a beast standing behind him.

_Just remember…_

Trobes raised his club.

_I'm not a villain._

Cecil's world went black.


	63. To Further the Plot

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 62. To Further the Plot  
**

_by Juniper  
_

Juniper ran.

He ran because he didn't know what to do. Everything he and Cecil had planned failed. It had failed? How could it have failed? It was foolproof—genius, even—but most of all, it had been his. A brilliant, wonderful scheme that should have been flawless in its execution. What had gone wrong?

Over and over Juniper replayed the scene in his mind. Maybe if they had been a little quieter, or waited a little longer, or switched places, with Cecil freeing Daskin and Juniper taking care of the kits, Mordred wouldn't have been roused, and they'd all be making their escape. But even then, what unknowns and variables would have changed? It couldn't have been him, he concluded. He had been perfect. It couldn't have been Cecil, either. Even if he continuously managed to botch things up, it was in his nature to flub and stumble in his part. Anything else would have been out of character.

It had to be the direction of the story. It wasn't the time to save Daskin, not yet. There must be a reason he was on this merry romp through the woods, whether it be for his or Daskin's benefit, else it would be unnecessary. So, with this in mind, Juniper continued on his way, his spirits—not renewed, but refreshed, at least, and that was good enough for him.

The otter didn't know what time it was—if it had ever been specified—but he was sure it had to be a few hours since the sun had set. Wandering lost in the woodlands in the middle of the night was not an ideal situation, but if it was for the good of the plot, then Juniper had no choice but to play along. At least his swellings had gone down, allowing him to speak properly, and he could actually open his eye. It made the world less dark and the mood not so unsettling.

The moon hung an ominous sheen in the cloudy night sky, the stars too dim and weak to break through the dense blanket of moisture. Juniper's tongue glossed over his missing tooth. The gum line felt slimy and unnatural without the canine there at its post, and Juniper wished they had not taken his pouch. If the tooth was still in his possession, at least he could feel better about something.

A rustle of leaves distracted him from his thoughts. He looked up in time to catch a swaying branch, and immediately felt his hackles rise. He had not noticed a breeze.

Continuing through the forest, the otter kept a wary eye and a cautious ear out for any suspicious disturbances. This, of course, made the whole of the forest out to get him. A rustle of leaves became a haunting wraith, and a snapping twig became a frightening monster, until Juniper realized it was he who had broken the twig. He spent the next moment or two feeling silly before an unknown force knocked him into a tree.

Juniper reeled, the rough bark acting like knives against his burnt paws, and he rolled away from the tree and fell to the ground. There, fighting the daze that had come over him, he searched the forest for his assailant, and saw him leaning against the very tree he had struck.

"Rufus," the otter murmured.

The squirrel smirked. "The very same."

Juniper twisted on the ground, attempting to push himself upright when Rufus kicked him square in the head. Stars exploded in the otter's eyes, and if they had come from a different source, he might have appreciated their appearance on this cold, dark night.

"Stay down," Rufus ordered.

After everything that had happened, from the scratches he had received from Hector, to the strike he had received from Dànaidh, to the beatings he had received from the Gergregs, Juniper was sick of getting hit, and he was not content on staying down as Rufus had asked. With a surge of frustration-induced adrenaline, he lifted himself from the ground and charged at the squirrel.

Surprised upon seeing such unexpected aggression, Rufus attempted to draw his sword, but the blade was barely out of its sheath before the otter reached him. That paw was Juniper's primary concern. Dodging the weapon, he grabbed the squirrel's wrist and slammed it against the tree, while his other paw connected with Rufus' head in a solid right hook. The pain from his burns became a distant thought as they both fell hard to the ground.

It was over as quickly as it had began. Juniper found himself splayed on top of the squirrel, and in the pale moonlight, he saw Rufus' eyes roll in their sockets. Taking advantage of the situation, the otter pressed one knee down on the squirrel's left wrist and did the same to the other, but not before wrenching the sword from his assailant's grasp.

By the time Rufus realized what was happening, it was too late to react. The otter had him pinned to the ground, with his own blade pressed against his throat. Despite the scenario he found himself in, he managed to snarl, then quieted as pressure was applied from the blade.

"It's my turn to play captain," Juniper said. It was the best line he could think of, something threatening and menacing, even if it didn't quite fit the scene. Then, just to make sure Rufus knew he meant business, he pressed the blade further against the squirrel's neck. It wasn't until Rufus' expression turned to one of fear that the otter let up. A thin red line glistened in the moonlight.

Rufus cleared his throat, then swallowed. "What are you going to do with me?"

Juniper didn't know. He couldn't let him go, that was obvious, and tying him up simply promised some time before Rufus could escape from his bonds and continue the hunt. That left only one option. Juniper pressed the blade against the squirrel's throat, but hesitated at the sharp intake of breath. He relieved some of the pressure, though it was more for his own comfort than the squirrel's.

He couldn't do it. He couldn't take a beast's life. Who was he kidding? Rufus was a living, breathing soul; he couldn't just take that away from him. So, he'd let him live, but then what? All Juniper could envision was Rufus coming back to kill him, or inform his cohorts, and they'd seek him out themselves. The otter was an endangerment to their operation; he had listened to their gossip throughout the entire journey. He knew too much.

Besides, he was in a story now, a real life story, with a plot and direction and everything. Things had changed. This was no longer about the Abbess or her murder. This was about Daskin, and the kits at Redwall, and their safety. Right now, Juniper was the only one who could help them. He couldn't afford risks, not when so many others were at stake. Rufus … he was just a character, and characters only existed to serve the story's needs. Once their part was over, it was over. Further the plot, that was their purpose.

"Further the plot," Juniper said out loud, as if that would help convince him.

"What?" Rufus said.

"I have to further the plot," Juniper repeated. The blade shook in his paws.

"What do you mean?" There was fear in Rufus' eyes.

Juniper blurred his vision so that he didn't have to see the squirrel's face, didn't have to see the expression change when he did what he was about to do. It would help him avoid the shock and the pain and the fear.

He could still visualize it in his mind.

In one laborious stroke, Juniper slid the blade against Rufus' throat. Even with his vision blurred he could still see the gush of red as it spurt from the opening wound. The otter closed his eyes and continued to slice, but that did not prevent the sickening gurgle from reaching his ears. A warm, wet liquid sprayed, and he bit back a whimper as it covered his fur and paws. Still, he continued to slice, until his arm was fully extended. Then, before the magnitude of the situation could hit him, Juniper discarded the sword and fled the scene.


	64. Unintended

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 63. Unintended  
**

_by Dominic  
_

Shandi had left to hole up inside the inn, complaining of a hangover. Dominic rolled his eyes. That's what she deserved!

She had missed all the excitement. Not that there was any _now_.

The sun was ambling across the sky serenely. Just by looking out at the town from the inn's front porch, it was impossible to tell there were groups of bounty hunters looking for him. Or that a dibbun mole had vanished with over half a secret army of spies combing the woods for any clue. The immediate treeline was still and quiet. The only part of this picture that looked worrisome was some darker clouds in the distance.

Dominic liked _his_ orders: Stay here. Don't move. Get in the cellars at the first sign of trouble.

He couldn't believe Demitri could have gotten away like that. How long ago was it? Nobeast knew. None of the guards had seen him. Someone claimed Oakey was supposed to have him. Oakey claimed she'd given him over to someone else. They'd claimed they'd asked Ollie to keep an eye on him. Ollie claimed that he was at least half certain Demitri didn't end up in tonight's stew.

How far could a dibbun mole have gone with a footpaw like a grilled cheese sandwich?

Dominic reached out and petted Ella's back again, to make sure she was still there. She was asleep on the bench beside him, curled up with her tailtip in her ear. She was twitching an awful lot. It was probably time for a flea inspection again.

Dominic waggled his footpaws and hugged his elbows. It didn't feel right, this dull pall over everything. Why was he sitting out here when there was an inn that needed cleaning just behind him? He could at least be sweeping. Or show them how to wipe tables down properly. Something to help while everyone else was busy with life and death matters.

"Hello, Dominic."

He jumped. Belette was standing on the ground below the porch, resting her arms on the railing. She must've come around the side of the inn so he wouldn't see her and have time to get away. He desperately wanted to.

He stared back at the sky.

"Dominic, are you still mad at me?"

He wasn't. "I don't know. Yes."

Belette came up and sat down next to him.

"Well, I hope you'll reconsider that. Rillrock is a friendly place... but not everybeast in it can abide murderers. I might be the only friend you really have among the Sentinels. All this talk-"

"I didn't kill anybeast!"

"I don't care."

Dominic shut his mouth.

"I like you, Dominic. You're a good father. You're cute, too. And you can be funny. You can be nice. But you're not used to it, are you?" Where was she going with this? "You're all tense inside. Like you're scared of yourself. You're trying not to be like your brother, but it's hard. And I'm sure you'd hit out, if only you knew who to hit. At least," she added, "that's just how it seems to me."

Dominic looked away. Belette sighed.

"Listen, Dom... I haven't the faintest idea why the Sentinels brought you here, why they hope to achieve by protecting you, innocent or not. Things feel sour to me. There's too much going on, with that treaty signing at Redwall, and the murders, and all those beasts out hunting for you and Shandi... And now that mole's gone missing, half the Sentinels are out looking for him. Defenses are down... Dominic."

She took his paw in hers. He pulled back, but she gripped him firmly, until he looked at her face.

"Now's our chance."

"What?"

"Run away with me. And Ella and Hannah. I don't want to live in Rillrock. It's not safe enough for you, and I never liked it here anyway. It was my husband's idea to come here, and now I know too much about the Sentinels to leave. They never let us leave, Dom. And... I guess I never had a reason to, really. Until now."

Dominic's tail bottlebrushed. He was excited, but his mind hadn't fully caught up with _why_.

"We'll go south, south as we can go. Past Southsward. We'll find a town so far away they haven't even heard of Redwall or any of this, where we can raise our daughters safely."

"I don't... I don't know. I've never been further than Sparkwood... And Faye, I can't leave Faye. She'll be needing me."

"Forget about Faye."

"But I can't-"

And suddenly Belette's nose was touching his. Her whiskers tangled up in his. Her lips, her tongue, her teeth! Dominic couldn't have declined even if he'd wanted to. He didn't. Her paws came up, grabbing his shoulders, hugging his neck closer. Tentatively, he reached out, wrapping his paws around her lower back. He had to make an effort not to grab at her tail. His jaw ached where Darron had punched him not long ago.

At some pointed they needed to breathe. Belette let go first.

"Right now," she said.

"What? You mean... right now?" Dominic's white cheeks were tinted pink.

"Yes!"

"Well, um, I..."

"Come on, Dom. We can do it. We're ready."

"Ella's sleeping out here. I can't just leave her..."

"We won't! We'll bring her with us."

Dominic gulped. "But she'll wake up, and it's still light out..."

"It'll be fine, no one will see us. Rod will make sure of that."

"Ella will see us!" His brain caught up with her words. He blanched. "Rod will be there?"

"Of course. We can trust him. He's actually packing your things right now. We can be gone in five minutes."

"Packing my-_Oh!_" Dominic laughed suddenly. "Right. Yes. Running away."

Belette narrowed her eyes. "What were you thinking of?"

Dominic decided it was best not to reply to that.

-

Given time to pack instead of cramming random things into bags, Rod had managed to consolidate all of Dominic and Ella's belongings into two simple rucksacks. He carried one on his back, and held the other out to Dominic. The weasel shrugged into it with effort. There was still enough jostling of Ella's sling to cause her to grunt in annoyance at being woken a second time.

Belette was looking out the window. Hannah stood beside her, bright-eyed and baffled. She carried her own little rucksack and her favourite doll.

"No one's been in or out of town for a few minutes," Belette said. "The search parties won't be back for a while. Tristram said they'd reconvene one hour before sunset, and then head out further."

"So how do we get past them?" Dominic asked.

"Oakey's group is mostly otters," Rod said. "They went looking to the nor- I mean, the south. They'll be concentrating on the ground. We'll follow their route, then camp a while in the trees. No squirrels, so we shouldn't be seen. Once they go back, we drop down, keep going south. We'll be out of range before the next group can catch up." The fox grinned. "Ain't we the lucky ones?"

"Are we?" Dominic wasn't so sure.

"Yes." Belette turned away from the window. She planted another kiss on his nose and went to get her own rucksack on. "We are."

"Follow me in a few minutes," Rod said. "I'm going to take care of the guard."

Dominic briefly imagined the fox giving the guard a hot mug of tea and a footpaw massage. He chuckled nervously.

Suddenly he was reminded of something. He made to head through the door after Rod.

"Where are you going?"

"Oh, I'm just going to tell Vikraja we're-"

"No, you're not," Belette hissed. She grabbed his arm, pulling him back inside. Dominic jerked it away.

"Yes, I am."

"No, you're _not_. No one can know we're leaving."

"Rod knows!"

"Rod's a friend."

"So's Vikraja."

"You barely know her!"

"I barely know _you_, Belette. Vikraja's from the south... I think. She might know things. She could be helpful."

Belette stamped her paws and turned around, arms folded. "D'you really think she wants to go back where she came from? Dom, there's a reason beasts leave home. Look at what happened to you. Half your village is after you, and most likely all of Redwall City. Do you want to drag Vikraja into something like that?"

"Well... no."

"Then it's settled. She's with Cones right now, so she won't even notice we're gone, until maybe tomorrow. And it's not like she cares anyway." She peered out the doorway. "_Now_ let's go. Come, Hannah, hold mummy's paw."

Dominic looked back at the town as he followed Belette toward the forest. He remembered... Vikraja watching him and Ella as he slept in the road, exhausted from pulling the cart full of ale. Her helping him find Ella under the table at Redwall. The knife she'd thrown him to defend himself. And then, after all that time, it had been Vikraja who'd brought Ella back to Veil to look for him. Not for bounty, but to reunite them. She'd protected them from the bandits on the way back to Rillrock. The lizard... was more family to him than he'd ever had.

He licked his lips and did his best to forget. Belette was right. Vikraja was just a kind stranger on a lonely road, nothing more. It was best she didn't get involved.

And she had Cones, besides.

He almost tripped over Sycamore's tail. The otter had been rolled just off the path, a broken branch resting across his back. Dominic hesitated. He didn't need this on his record!

"Is he dead?"

"Just knocked out," Rod said. The fox sauntered out from behind a tree. "He'll be fine. He'll wake up, think a falling branch hit him. Don't _worry_."

"Um, that's another thing," Dominic said. "This plan... I'm not sure it's going to work. I've... I've never climbed a tree before."

Belette patted his arm. "We'll help you up. And no, we won't let Ella fall. But, really, Dom. You need to _branch_ out someday, try new things."

"Yes," Dom said miserably. "Faye was always telling me that. I did, once."

"How did it work out for you?"

"I'm allergic to shellfish."

-

Forget about Faye?

He knew he wouldn't. But for Belette's sake, he had to pretend to try.

Rod had packed well. He noticed things, and so the toy bird wrapped in Faye's old dress had been placed carefully on top. It was the first thing Dominic found when he opened his rucksack. He took the delicate creation out and balanced it on the branch in front of him. He began to tie the dress around the branch.

"Poppy, 'm I in a treeee?" Ella asked.

"Yes, dear, shhhhh," he said.

"Poppy, 'm I a, a, a _owl_?"

"For now, if you want. Please be quiet, Ella."

Dominic turned around carefully and edged back to the hole in the trunk where he had stashed Ella. She frowned at him from the shadows.

"I'm not an owl, I'm a campin'!"

"Yes! Yes, fine, we're camping. But _shhhhh_, or the mosquitoes will bite." And that was a whole host of further troubles just waiting...

He slipped inside the hole, clamping his paw over Ella's mouth, and craned his neck out. Rod was in the tree across, giving warning signals to keep quiet. Dominic mouthed back, _I'm trying!_ Rod indicated that, from his perspective, it did not seem Dominic was trying very hard at all, and that it was evident Dominic had other things he deemed more important than the well-being of his fur or the skin it was growing on. Dominic did his best to convey with one free paw that he wouldn't mind hitting Rod over the head with a hammer. Belette chucked flakes of bark at the both of them.

A few minutes later, they could hear Oakey's voice far below. The otter soon passed out of earshot. Dominic breathed again. Then he worried why he hadn't noticed he hadn't been breathing in the first place.

Then he remembered it was time to change Ella's diaper.


	65. Repeating the Position

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 64. Repeating the Position  
**

_by Daskin  
_

_"So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."  
-The Great Gatsby _

###

"Cecil." Daskin stood over the prone squirrel, carefully not leaning too far forward—his paws were tightly bound behind him, and he might overbalance.

"Hmmmwhaaa? No, love, I don't want—"

"Cecil, wake up."

" 'Course the song's for you, my sweet, I wrote it… just yesterday."

Daskin glared.

"I say we oughta slit his throat and leave him. Not as young as the ones we're supposed to be getting, anyhow. And he did try to escape."

"Cecil!"

"I'm not carryin' him."

"CECIL!"

"Hmmm?" The squirrel opened his eyes, then closed them again. "Ouch… my head…"

The fox dragged Cecil to his feet, and collected his paws, tying them tightly. He shoved Cecil roughly forward, and the squirrel stumbled but managed to stay upright. "Walk. We have to get all the way to Veil Village. Same goes fer the rest of you!" he snarled at the cluster of woodlander kits that huddled under their other captors' watchful eye.

And so their journey continued, minus Juniper. A few minutes passed in relative silence, the only noise being the occasional snapping of twigs under footpaws. Daskin noticed the dark bloodstain on his shoulder, which had dried to a black smear on the green fabric. Instinctively, he moved to pull the cloak off, but his wrists cried out in protest. Could he still smell the blood a little, or was that imagination? Daskin shivered, and felt his stomach turn. He might have thrown up, but food was a fairly distant memory, at this point.

"Silver, did Juniper make it away?"

Daskin groaned inwardly. Was the squirrel going to talk to him the entire way to… wherever?

"Yes, he did."

"That's rather fortunate, then." _He enjoys hearing himself talk._

"Rather."

"Er, Mas... Mas... Silver, lad, I... do feel simply terrible about the whole... business, before. Truly, I do. But I do believe, now that we are in the same ship, it would be in our best interest to stick together, don't you agree?" The squirrel's shoulders tensed a bit against his bonds, apparently in lieu of a nervous fidget.

"Right."

That seemed to be all, and the squirrel stopped trying to spark a conversation, instead singing under his breath—

"If you intend thus to disdain,  
It does the more enrapture me,  
And even so, I still remain,  
A lover in captivity…"

Daskin had to admit that Cecil could carry a tune, and added his own voice to the familiar song, a small gesture of companionship…

"Thou couldst desire no earthly thing,  
but still thou hadst it readily.  
Thy music still to play and sing;  
And yet thou wouldst not love me."

###

"Go on, then." Mordred shoved the small of Daskin's back, sending the kit stumbling forward and almost dropping him to his knees—they had earned the tight bonds that chafed his wrists, with their escape attempt, and at least Juniper had made it away. And this muck-for-brains squirrel could have done the same, but had decided, unfathomably, to not run and got himself clobbered for his effort.

Now, they wobbled, unbalanced by their restraints, down the stairs into a dark room that reeked of mildew and fear, the lantern-wielding Mordred following behind them. At the bottom, what had been a cellar had been converted to a temporary prison, and Mordred's lantern illuminated hastily-installed bars, and threw shadows like spiderwebs over the crumbling mortar of the walls. Earth was visible behind the mortar in some places, but Daskin had little time to inspect—he felt Mordred tugging at his bonds, and squirmed.

"If you want me to leave ya here overnight without taking those off, I'd be only too happy," the fox snarled. Daskin held still, and Mordred's dagger slashed through the rope, swiftly coming up to the ferret kit's throat. "Won't have you trying to run again." Daskin let the fox steer him into a cell—really more of a cage—barely large enough for him to turn around inside. Mordred locked the door behind him, as their other attackers were securing the rest of their charges.

Cecil, notably, had been put into the farthest cell, where the wall appeared to be leaking something slimier than water, while the woodlander kits were in somewhat drier accommodations. Some were wide-eyed and sniffling, while others drooped, fright swallowed by fatigue. Mordred turned down his lantern and hung it from a hook on the ceiling. "Get sleep, you'll need it." The captors filed out, and the dim lantern sputtered above them all.

A mouse a bit younger than Daskin occupied the cell next to him, which shared a section of bars with his own. Daskin scooted to that side, and the mouse turned to look at him, his eyes wide but glassy and dull. For a long moment, Daskin sat there, waiting for some inspiration to strike—something to say, something that would help—but felt an equal compulsion to silence as to speech.

"Who…" Daskin swallowed. "Who are you?"

The mouse stared, and inched away from the bars. His head turned away. "My… my mama said, not ta talk ta vermin," he said, and his voice was high and trembling, and oddly matter-of-fact. Daskin had no reply to offer, and the mouse's gaze flicked over to the dark stain on Daskin's cloak, ever so briefly, before he turned away for good, hiding his face.

"That was uncalled for, young sir!" Cecil piped up, glancing from side to side.

Daskin looked up at the dim lantern, which still cast shattered-glass shadows all around, and let his thoughts turn to chess, to the rigid order of alternating squares, light and dark, and to the clarity of battle against a single, equal opponent. The basement of some building in a village… somewhere… their captors had taken them, on the way to an unspecified further destination. No doubt Juniper would have had stern critiques of the plot, had he not escaped. Nothing was clear. And why wasn't Juniper here? Instead Daskin had been stuck with some useless squirrel. Juniper… now, Juniper he understood, Juniper belonged on a chessboard. Predictable movements, and reliably on Daskin's side.

There were pawsteps on the stairs—one or two kits looked up, while the rest remained fast asleep. Daskin could hear low voices, and, coming to a decision, he shut his eyes and played a game inside his own head, his breathing slow, feigning sleep.

_Pawn forward, pawn forward, knight attacks, knight defends, bishop to attack knight, pawn to attack bishop, retreat bishop, attack, retreat… castle, castle, rook over…_

"These are all you found? Really?"

"No, we found an otter, too. Older. He was with the overgrown squirrel and the ferret… he escaped."

"Excellent work indeed." This voice was laden with sarcasm but also a degree of boredom.

_Pawn up, bishop over, pawn up… capture, capture…_

"I've been ordered to join you on the next leg of your journey. It seems somebeast decided you couldn't manage to handle this rough-and-tumble bunch on your own."

The other beast muttered something indistinct.

"_What_ doesn't seem necessary, Mordy? And I'll thank you to leave off the name. 'Captain' shall do."

"Not my captain, yer just the beast who pays me, Corrigan."

Daskin gasped, and opened his eyes. In the dim, he could still recognize the posture of Captain Corrigan… back as straight as one of the iron bars. What was he doing here… he must be in charge of this operation, but then why—

_Check, pawn to block, capture, capture._

He shook his head, and let the image of the board drift away.

"Corrigan!" Daskin half-shouted, voice cracking.

"What? Who is that?" The ill-tempered ferret strode over to Daskin's cage, and Daskin rushed up to meet him, almost forgetting the situation enough to smash headlong into the bars. Corrigan looked down at him. "Well, Master Stirling. How did you end up here?"

He turned to Mordred. "Keys."

"But, he was with the ones who escap…uh, here." Mordred produced the key to Daskin's cell, wilting under Corrigan's glare.

"Thank you. You may go." Mordred hastily disappeared up the stairs.

"Master Stirling, is that right?" Cecil spoke up. "As in, the Marshank Stirlings?"

Corrigan squinted at the lock and said nothing. Daskin replied instead.

"Yes, those Stirlings. I'm their son."

The lock clicked open, and Corrigan swung the door wide. "We'll find you a place to sleep upstairs. My apologies. Lady Stirling is going to throw a fit."

"Er, Silver. Uh, not that that is your name, of course, but would you see about getting me and these kits out of here? For old times' sake? One good escape deserves another, don't you agree?" Cecil sounded hopeful, and had one arm laced through the bars. The squirrel grinned anxiously, glancing back and forth between the ferret kit and the other prisoners. "If not me then... surely them."

Daskin considered… Cecil had tried to help them escape… after he'd tried to drag them back to Redwall in chains. The squirrel was not a reliable ally. Not like Hector, or Danaidh, or Juniper… who Cecil would no doubt try to find, given his freedom. But _Juniper_ would have freed Cecil in a moment. He would take the chance to be the hero, and as everybeast knows, the hero doesn't leave somebeast in a slimy cell. It would be wrong, after all.

_Then it's wrong. But when your opponent blunders..._

Daskin looked at the mouse, now asleep, whom he had wished to comfort. Even this soon, his rebuffed effort brought only a flush of embarrassment and the bite of bitter rage, no sympathy.

_They're not on my side, none of them. Except Corrigan…_

Cecil spoke again. "Silver?"

"My name is Daskin Stirling." His voice shook, but he bit back the tremor of—what, fear? Embarassment? Daskin looked into Cecil's eyes, willed away every bit of emotion, every bit of misplaced sympathy, every desire to play the hero.

"Right. Daskin? Help?"

_That's Juniper's role, not mine. I can only play the game, and win._

"No." Daskin pulled his cloak tighter around him. The bloodstain, for once, didn't bother him.


	66. The Abuse of Wicked Dreams

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 65. The Abuse of Wicked Dreams  
**

_by Danaidh  
_

Dánaidh stood on a soft, moss-covered plain in the midst of an encircling glade of towering redwood trees. The tall trunks stood side by side, offering a natural boundary to the denser, shadow-strewn forest within and concealing this unexpected oasis from the outside world. A moderately-sized willow tree stood sentry over a glassy pool, its longer branches flitting and dipping into the cool water at the whim of the gentle breeze whispering through the redwoods. The breeze carried a gentle hum on its back that rose and fell—the melody of the forest. The amber glow of the distant spring sun in the clear sky above brought a warm scent of hazelnut and dandelion. Dánaidh swallowed the lump that had gradually climbed up his throat and breathed deeply, feeling a sense of calm contentment wash over and through him.

_PAIN—!_

Dánaidh slapped a trembling paw against his torn temple as he fell to his knees. The tremble in his paw moved to his vision, then to his whole body as he shook in an abrupt attack of deep coughs. He coughed uncontrollably, each rasping hack long and extreme. He stuck out his tongue and struggled for air, lowering his paw to his mouth, certain his lungs would suddenly tumble from his jaws. Oily blobs began to cloud his vision.

_'Sleep,'_ The Haze hissed in his mind's ear. _'We will repair your damage.'_

_Yes, that's what I need. I need rest…I'm so tired. It's been a long time since I hurt this bad, and I could use a break after what's happened—_

"Stay awake."

The command shocked Dánaidh back to reality, alertness draining the greasy fog from his eyes. For a moment, he thought he heard a miniscule roar as The Haze retreated to its occupied region at the corners of his vision. The voice came from behind…

Dánaidh turned slowly, careful not to upset the strained balance between his vision and his consciousness. The wary turn still shot a fresh pinprick of pain across his head, and he winced. He raised a paw against the bright sunlight and stared at the willow several yards away.

A mouse in a green habit sat in the shade of the tree, footpaws folded across each other, paws resting gently on his lap. He beckoned to Dánaidh with a paw. "Please, come and join me."

_'Treachery!'_ The Haze cautioned.

"I won't hurt you…I promise." The mouse smiled and gestured to a vacant, comfortable spot in the shade beside him.

Dánaidh nodded curtly and struggled to his footpaws, coughing one last time into his paw as he straightened his posture. He cleared his throat and smacked his chest, anxious about the sloshing reaction he felt deep within.

"There you go," the mouse encouraged as Dánaidh approached. "I'm glad for your company. It's been a little while since I've had a guest here."

"Is that a fact?" Dánaidh asked, dropping to a comfortable sitting position. He sighed in thankfulness as he welcomed the cooling shade and the relief it brought. The throbbing pressure beneath his scalp lessened, and he allowed himself a small smile.

"How about some water?" the mouse asked. "It will do you a world of good."

"I'll do that…thank you," Dánaidh said, sliding over to the edge of the pool. It rippled as he slid his paws under its cool surface, and his bloodied reflection shimmered beneath him. He cupped a paw and lifted it to his parched lips. The fresh aid washed down his throat and over his cheeks, mixing with the dried berry juice. He sloshed a remainder of the water between both cheeks and spat the mouthful out onto the grass. It felt clean and invigorating, and he wanted more.

"You can have more, but be careful," the mouse said.

Dánaidh licked his lips and dunked his head beneath the surface, just as he had back at the abbey's pond. He drank deeply and allowed the water to rush, soothe and permeate every inch of his wounded head. It felt wonderful.

From below, in the darkness of the pool, a deep voice rumbled: "Yesssss."

Dánaidh opened his eyes.

Two ragged, skeletal claws pounced from the blackness and grabbed his face, tugging him deeper. "Come deeper," the voice rumbled. Two red, glowing slits boiled from the shadows. Dánaidh struggled against the pull of the claws, thrashing in the pool. He pulled back, but he wasn't strong enough. He was going further into the water. The red eyes grew larger as the dark voice boomed in the depths: "I have things for you to _DOOOO!"_

Dánaidh broke the surface of the pool with a scream and landed on his back, gasping. The mouse in the habit stood over him, offering a paw to help him up.

"Trouble?" the mouse asked.

Dánaidh sputtered and spat into the mossy grass and wiped his lips clean. "There's something in there," he whispered, pointing to the pool. "Something…deep in the water…"

"I would think so," the mouse said, following Dánaidh's paw with his eyes. "You're never alone."

Dánaidh blinked and stared at the mouse. "What?"

The mouse turned back to Dánaidh. "You are the gateway, Dánaidh."

Dánaidh's eyes grew wide. "It was you!" he cried, struggling to his footpaws. "You're the one who spoke to me—you woke me up!" His eyes narrowed. "How do you know my name?"

"Yes, I woke you," the mouse said. "I wake many creatures—some who know of me, many who don't. Confusion rarely stops somebeast from accomplishing his or her task."

"Task?" Dánaidh repeated.

"Yes," the mouse said, smiling. "I am Martin the Warrior, Protector of Redwall Abbey. I am the spirit of independence, leadership, courage, ingenuity and teamwork. I have walked on this earth and now I walk no more. I have called on many, and now I call on you."

Dánaidh stared in silence. Martin bowed to Dánaidh and continued:

"I am the sower; you are the gardener."

"G—," Dánaidh began. "Wait, wait a moment—stop and tell me what—"

"There is an empty garden, Dánaidh," Martin said, moving his paw over a patch of grass. Sprouts began to grow from where his paw passed over. "I have sown the seed; now, as a good caretaker, you must be watchful and cultivate the plants, and remove the weeds." Just as quickly as the sprouts appeared, several discolored thorn tentacles broke out and choked the sprouts until they withered and grew brown. Martin lowered his paw, and the grass returned to normal.

"But you haven't told me—"

Martin turned to Dánaidh, and the hedgehog took a pawstep back. The mouse's eyes were glowing orbs of brilliant white, surrounded by an impressive golden aura that radiated a powerful, blinding light.

"Dánaidh!" Martin called. His voice thundered with the sound of a thousand thunderclaps and the tumult of one hundred trumpets. Dánaidh dropped to a knee in overwhelming awe, shielding his eyes from the increasing radiance emerging from the mouse. "Heed my words, and listen!" Dánaidh gasped as an invisible pen held by an invisible paw scratched in elegant, flashing script the words Martin spoke onto the air next to the mouse.

_"Those who are asleep  
Will wake anew again.  
I—Hand Aid,  
Return to where you began.  
Follow the winding, crooked path  
And enter into Great Hall.  
I—Hand Aid,  
Your fate lies within Redwall.  
Nine they are who shall return  
Yet seven must remain;  
Seek the one who crawls alone—  
They you shall retain.  
Nine they are who shall return  
But one shall leave with thee…  
I—Hand Aid,  
My sword still wields for me!"_

Dánaidh buried his head in his paws, unable to bear the onslaught of the message and the appearance of the bearer. "Enough!" he cried from his crouch. He raised his head slowly and scoffed when Martin appeared in front of him as normal as he had when they first spoke.

"Too much?" Martin asked, smirking.

Dánaidh rose to his footpaws, shaking his head. "I don't believe it."

Martin lost his smirk. "You don't believe what?"

Dánaidh grew his own smirk. "This. You." He gestured to the glade. "All of this."

Martin gestured to the glade as well. "Perhaps you should look to the trees again, Dánaidh."

Dánaidh sniffed and turned around. The redwoods stared back at him, solemn and silent. He glanced at their branches, at their array of leaves, the curve of the roots and knotted surface of the bark—

_Wait._

_A…  
H…  
L…  
D…  
T…  
R…  
E…_

_Wait, wait wait…_

"Wait," he heard himself say, his eyes darting from trunk to trunk, trying to decipher what he saw.

The trunks were marred—_no, they're cut…on purpose!_ Somebeast had gouged shapes into the bark of the trees—two shapes per tree, one above the other—at roughly the same height and width, and utilizing the natural spacing of the trees, had left a message etched onto the surface of the forest's edge. He squinted as he stepped back, allowing his vision to frame the majority of the message.

| A | W | A | R | R | I | O | R | L | O | S | T | W | I | T | H | O | U | T | H | I | S | B | L | A | D | E |  
| S | E | Q | U | E | S | T | E | R | E | D | I | N | T | H | E | P | U | R | I | S | T | H | E | A | R | T |  
| A | W | A | R | R | I | O | R | L | O | S | T | W | I | T | H | I | N | T | H | I | S | G | L | A | D | E |  
| P | R | E | S | E | R | V | E | H | E | R | F | O | R | H | E | R | F | U | T | U | R | E | P | A | R | T |

Martin's gentle, prophetic voice read the message aloud in Dánaidh's ear:

_'A warrior lost without his blade  
Sequestered in the purist heart;  
A warrior lost within this glade  
Preserve her for her future part.'_

Dánaidh blinked rapidly, rubbing at his watering eyes with both paws. He felt The Haze pushing against his skull, forcing its way out, trying to split his head apart. "What does it mean?" he said, moaning against the growing pain.

"The empty garden," Martin said.

Dánaidh groaned.

"The gardener with the seed and weeds," Martin said.

Hot, shapeless blobs flashed across Dánaidh's eyes.

"A weaselmaid not yet of age," Martin said.

Dánaidh pressed against his eyes again, but the shapes grew more vivid in the darkness.

"Her part shall come, but you must protect her."

"Protect who?" Dánaidh growled, dropping his paws. He glared at Martin with a rage strengthened by ceaseless pain and confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"You haven't met her yet," Martin said in a calm tone. "But you will…soon. And when you do, you'll know she's the one—the one you must protect."

"I must…? I must protect her?" Dánaidh shook his head, aimlessly walking about the glade as he considered the words. "I don't have a choice?"

"You do," Martin countered.

"And if I choose not to?" Dánaidh's reply came more quickly than he liked, but he wouldn't back away from the open honesty his voice betrayed.

"Everybeast has a choice, Dánaidh. I can't force anybeast to do anything, just as you can't force anybeast to do anything they don't willingly want to."

"Well, I _can,_" Dánaidh said, smirking at his flinching paws.

"But do they do what you want them to freely?" Martin asked. He sighed. "I can bend a blade, shatter a mountain, cause the sky to burn black and freeze the flames of the hottest furnace…but in all that, if those who follow me do so because I _force_ them to, I am nothing but a puppet master…a chieftain of shadows. I have no more power than the wind that fleets from the north to the south."

Dánaidh snorted.

"Force is not…has never been…my way." Martin looked up at the azure sky. "Freedom is a powerful, costly gift. It comes with blood and sweat and seasons of sacrifice—but those who enjoy it would not relinquish it simply because of the work involved in its accomplishment."

"So I am important to your plans, then?" Dánaidh asked.

Martin smiled. "Yes."

Dánaidh coughed rapidly and covered his mouth with a cupped paw. "I need to protect someone," Dánaidh continued, breathing deeply as he recovered from the coughs. "A weaselmaid, you said."

"Yes," Martin said again. "She is young and innocent, and for our purposes, helpless."

Dánaidh felt something appear in his paws. He glanced down and opened them, revealing a lump of clay.

"You must mold her," Martin continued from behind Dánaidh. "Shape her into the leader she will be…a creature of justice and patience, goodwill and liberty."

The lump of clay morphed and twisted in Dánaidh's paws, instantly transforming into an open book.

"As she learns from you, you will learn from her. Never allow yourself to think you cannot be taught anything."

The book trembled and split into dozens of small puzzle pieces that fell to the moss and grass at Dánaidh's footpaws.

"She will confuse and frustrate you, Dánaidh, as any child does a parent. Do not allow this test to overwhelm you—be confident in your course and you will see every challenge through to its completion…and you will be better for it afterward."

The puzzle pieces resting in Dánaidh's paws seemed to melt and grow together until a beautiful blue robin's egg emerged. Dánaidh gasped and steadied his paws, trying not to upset the fragile object he held.

"She is precious and delicate, Dánaidh. Remember this always as you work with her. Handle her with love and care, and she will weather all you show her."

Dánaidh's eyes grew wider as the egg boiled in his paws, bursting its shell and bubbling in his grip. The blistering mess fell away to the ground, revealing a brilliant, miniature star that glowed like a firefly.

"She will be numbered with those before her…champions of Mossflower, rescuers of the perishing, saviors to the oppressed…and her story shall be told for seasons on end."

The star increased in brightness until Dánaidh closed his eyes. When he reopened them, he was sitting under the willow tree next to Martin. The mouse smiled at him.

"Amazing, isn't it?" he asked.

_'It is not real.'_ The Haze floundered at the edge of Dánaidh's gaze, billowing and frilling at its edges but still unable to seize complete control.

"I assure you: this is very real." Martin stared directly into Dánaidh's eyes. "Don't discount the power of visions, or of prophecy. How else can one convey uncanny revelations?"

_'This mouse is deceiving you…'_

Martin shook his head. "I am not deceiving you."

"You say the protection of this weaselmaid is important?" Dánaidh asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Very," Martin answered.

"And I am important to her protection?"

"You are," Martin said.

Dánaidh snickered. "What's in it for me, then?"

Martin blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"Surely there's some reward for assuming this role you have set for me," Dánaidh said. "Especially if I'm risking my life for her—for _you."_

"Of course," Martin replied, nodding. "You will have ensured the safety and protection of—"

"No, no!" Dánaidh waved his paws in front of his face, frowning. "I'm not talking about some 'Grand Scheme' or the thanks of every creature in Mossflower…I want something real. Something that's worthwhile for _me."_

"It _is_ for everybeast in Mossflower," Martin countered. "For all that live, and all that _will_ live. It's for their future, not mine. My role is to protect them, until the tale ends."

"And when is that?" Dánaidh asked, cocking his head to the side.

Martin smirked. Dánaidh chuckled. The two shook their heads simultaneously.

"So what else do you want?" Martin asked.

Danny's brow furrowed, and he smiled darkly.

"No," Martin said quickly.

"But—"

"There is darkness within you, Dánaidh. I see it clearly now; it's a poisonous gift, and you've seen and done things that weren't meant for you. This makes you unusual, and unusual beasts cannot exist without restrictions and boundaries."

Dánaidh blew air through his lips in disappointment. "What is this, fatherly advice?"

"Use your tools, Dánaidh, but don't become their slave." Martin's tone was a mixture of chiding and encouragement. "Darkness wants you just as strongly as the light."

"You know what I want," Dánaidh said. "I don't think it's too much to ask for."

"But can you afford the cost?" Martin asked. His eyes gleamed with concern. "I will use you as a tool, Dánaidh, and give you the freedom to follow your path…wherever that path may lead, on whatever fork you decide to explore."

"Will you bring her to me?" Dánaidh asked.

"No," Martin answered curtly.

"Then take me to her."

"No."

"Will you guide me to where she is?"

"No."

"Will you tell me where she is?"

"No!"

"Can you keep her alive?" Dánaidh asked.

"…I can…" Martin whispered.

"Then keep her alive!" Dánaidh exploded. "…and I'll find her."

Martin sighed and rose to his footpaws.

"Where are you going?" Dánaidh asked.

"We are finished here," Martin said. "You are needed elsewhere. You know your task…now accomplish it."

"I will," Dánaidh nodded. "And you remember your side of the bargain, too."

Martin's eyes exploded with golden light, and once again a fierce, terrific wind burst around Dánaidh, blowing over his body and ruffling his clothing. He closed his eyes and flew through blackness dotted with distant starlight. He felt the wind increase in speed and volume and he raised his paws to his ears, trying to shield them from the overwhelming shriek that pounded through his head.

_"I don't make promises I can't keep, Dánaidh…"_ Martin's distant voice echoed.

The wind disappeared completely, replaced with an unsettling calm.

_"You would do well to remember."_

Dánaidh opened his eyes. He was high in the air, flying across a field in Mossflower…

No.

He was high in the air, _falling towards a field!_ The rustling grass and trees rushed at him at a frightening pace.

_"SHITE!"_ Dánaidh cried.


	67. I Can Still Hear You

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 66. I Can Still Hear You Telling Me What A Big Mistake I've Made  
**

_by Aya  
_

_The fists came before she even had a chance to take another breath. Maybe it was better that way. It seemed to hurt less than if they'd knocked the air out of her, as they had last week._

The squirrel fell to the ground, curling instinctively into a ball as the ruffians laid into her with footpaws until her whimpering became a steady, drawn-out, keening cry of pain. She was barely out of kithood; her tormentors, scarcely older. But the pack of street urchins were seeking any relief from the shared misery of scrounging for survival, and the scrawny red squirrel with the big mouth had been too ripe a target to miss out on, especially for the leader.

Aya felt the blows finally cease, the mocking laughter trailing off in the distance as a fare-thee-well rain of refuse landed over and around her. She lay there, gasping and quivering, until the tears stopped.

~ ~ ~ ~

It was an odd time to realize it, but being beaten didn't bother Aya nearly as much as being bound. It wasn't exactly something one grew accustomed to, but there was a rude sort of comfort in returning to the primal rules of strong-beats-weak. Once she was free and all this was over, she owed those bloody martens some equal time with interest, preferably with a few select substances at her disposal. There were some wonderful emetics and urticants to be found this time of year...

At least Hector had left her gag out after their little chat. If she never smelled (or tasted) a marten's hat again, it would be too soon. The red squirrel sat on her haunches, almost absentmindedly testing the fetters on her wrists as she belatedly assessed the situation and participants she'd agreed to become a part of.

The other females were all useless in a fight, except maybe as a distraction. The wildcat in particular could probably keep a half-dozen pairs of eyes fixated in fascination if she would quit whining and actually strut her stuff -or if somebeast were to step on her tail, Aya thought with dark amusement. The martens and the fox were decent enough in combat, although there was still a distinct lack of knowledge about what sort of beasts they would be facing in this "rescue" they were planning. The hare was a wildcard as far as she was concerned. She'd have to keep an eye on him to make sure that he stuck around after the rescue, but he'd seemed genuine enough in his concern for Cecil's safety.

All in all, it would have been useful to still have the hedgepig around, Aya decided, despite his infuriating antics and caterwauling back in the caverns. Her own quick glance at the still body in the flash of a lightning bolt had shown a gaping head wound.

_It figures. As soon as I meet someone with a bit of a spark, he gets knocked on the head by a tree. Might even have passed for good-looking if he wasn't so damn ugly. Of course, this is after he goes on the run under suspicion of murder, too. You do know how to pick 'em, don't you, Aya?_

Aya's musings were interrupted by Fjord's tentative approach, the hare shifting his weight gingerly from footpaw to footpaw before settling down on his haunches across from her. Aya grinned mirthlessly as she saw he was careful to keep out of kicking range. The hare swallowed, hemmed, hawed, and grimaced in evident confusion as to how to begin. Aya kept a fixed glare on his visage, the slightest twitch of the corner of her mouth evincing her satisfaction at being the source of his discombobulation.

"Spiffing day we've had, wot?" he said finally.

Aya stared at him.

"We'll be breaking bread soon," the hare continued, "although rather later than I'd prefer. It's enough to make a chap wish for another of your delectable scones, miss."

Aya twitched her tail, but remained determinedly mute.

"Dash it all, gel!" Fjord burst out in exasperation, "There's no need to sit mum as a pot of chrysanthes and let your eyes bore into a chap's soul like that. There's naught I detest more than having to lay harsh paws on a lady."

"Really? Then we might have different definitions of what it means to be a lady," Aya replied acridly. The hare started stammering indignant protestations, but Aya was struck with a sudden thought. It was a random shot, but she was curious to see how the hare reacted to her next sentence.

"For instance, take the dear, departed Abbess. Did you consider her a lady, now?"

"Why, I most certainly did," the hare retorted, but not without a noticeable swallow, "even if you did not, from what I heard at the Abbey."

~ ~ ~ ~

_The three years intervening had added height but not weight to the rag-tag posse in the streets. Food was still hard to come by for those who weren't strong enough to travel or skilled enough to pick up a trade, and charitable beasts were a scarce commodity. There were new faces in the pack, most noticeably a couple of scrawny female red squirrels. The younger had a mallet she prized more fiercely than a bag of nut sweetmeats; the older had fought, bullied, and cajoled her way into leading the pack, displacing the incongruously sweetly-named squirrel who had led it before. It wasn't a perfect revenge, Aya thought, but at least she had fewer bruises now that Dittany was no longer in charge of tormenting her. Last she'd heard, in fact, the wretch had managed to secure passage to Redwall. Well, let her. With Dittany gone, there was even a chance she could intimidate her way into claiming an apprenticeship at the local bakery. That would all but ensure a steady supply of food, and good prospects once she'd learned the trade. Aya smiled, just for a split second. Life was hard, but she'd always managed to get by._

Sometimes she even managed to come out on top.

~ ~ ~ ~

"Oh yes, that old gossip," Aya made as if to fling a paw over her shoulder before being abruptly reminded of her bound situation. "We certainly had our differences as kits. She thought she deserved to be in charge; I thought it was a question of having the mettle for the job." The squirrel grinned bitterly. "I guess she found a way to prove herself finally, to the right beasts. Imagine my surprise when I arrive at Redwall and find my old acquaintance is now the Abbess."

Aya glanced at Fjord from the corner of an eye.

"She was still quite capable of being a cruel, dominating, arrogant wench of a squirrel when she pleased, though. Did you ever see that side of her, I wonder?"

"Well... I-I can't say that I ever saw daisies popping up wherever her footpaws trod, certainly. She was a bit of a... willful gel, as many are. And there are many chaps out there who appreciate... a direct approach to life and a... vociferous gel to expound upon said approaches. There was... I mean... we had our minor disagreements."

The squirrel laughed dryly.

"Maybe our definitions of what it means to be a lady aren't so different after all, eh, hare? But I'm not the one who fled into the night after her murder -don't get your britches in a bunch now, you'll have your chance to have your say back at Redwall. I'm just going to make sure you have a chance to tell your side, don't you see?"

The hare stood upright, shaking out his cramping footpaws.

"Yes, yes, that's right," he agreed, his tone fading as he stared off into the distance before shaking his head and looking at Aya again. "But not until we rescue Cecil, Juniper, and young Silver first, eh? Oh, I do believe it's time for dinner..."

"So, fox, what does a gal need to do to get her paws free? I'm not much use when I'm bound, after all," Aya called over to the troupe gathered around a small cooking fire. The smell emanating from the skewers was nearly enough to turn her empty stomach, but fortunately she still had her own provisions, if she could but reach them. "Or perhaps one of you would like to feed me? I promise not to bite. Much."

Thera shot her husband a pleading glance as he turned away from the fire and approached the tree where Aya was tethered. The fox eyed her for a moment, arms crossed on his chest.

"I know we've had our differences, squirrel, but I look after my troupe like they're my family. And right now, some of my kits are missing, and I _will_ get them back. The question is, how much do you trust us -" the fox stepped forward and slit Aya's bonds "-because I'm trusting you to help us do what's right."

Aya jumped off her haunches and stamped from footpaw to footpaw, rubbing at her wrists. Hector eyed her warily, flanked by the Gergregs. The squirrel grinned toothily at them.

"I'll just grab some dinner of my own, if you don't mind, and then we can discuss how to go about getting these 'kits' back," Aya said with a snort at the thought of Cecil being included amongst the kits. Sure, he was a good bit younger than she, but certainly out of kit-hood to all but the most inebriated observer. It was enough to make one wonder why he'd been amongst those snatched, but Aya didn't think about it too much as she grabbed a meal of dried winter apples and a stale oat-cake out of her pack and joined the others by the fire.

"Alright everyone, here's the plan," Hector began, unable to resist delivering his lines with a theatrical flourish. "We know our mysterious assailants retreated to Veil Village."

"The tracks were plain enough that even Alastia could read them through her false lashes," one Gergreg whispered to the other. Aya bit her lip, intent on not letting the two make her laugh when she was determined to get even with them. Hector continued without noticing any interruption.

"Our main difficulty will be in sneaking up on the village -"

"Well, maybe not sneaking up on the village. Bit hard that. After all, you can't be sure where its back or front is, eh? Buildings facing all points of the compass and all that, wot?" Fjord chimed in.

"Sneaking _into_ the village, on the other paw," Aya remarked dryly, "is ever so much more reasonable an undertaking."

"Mmm, quite," Hector said blandly. "In any case, we'll all enter under cover of darkness. There's only one building large enough to hold the number of beasts involved in snatching and imprisoning our three, in addition to however many other unfortunates we may find. The Gergregs and I will take care of any patrols that might head our way, or any concentrated resistance we may encounter. Fjord, you'll be with Thera and Alastia covering our rear and making sure our escape route stays open. Aya, we'll need your sling to take out any sentries."

"I suppose I should use something a little nastier than scones in that case, eh, rabbit?" Aya said with a smirk. Fjord's ears flattened but he didn't respond to the jibe.

The fire was doused and the troupe readied themselves for the evening's events. Aya scuffed about under the trees and found a stash of black walnuts which would perfectly suit her purposes: they'd fly straight and true through the air, and were hard enough to knock a beast out given the right impact. Her knife had been returned to her, already sharpened. It was time for business.

~ ~ ~ ~

Aya crept along a hedgerow, bent nearly double as she tried to keep her bushy tail from entangling itself in the hawthorn bushes. Her sling hung ready in her paw as she tried to pierce through the murky darkness ahead, searching for any silhouettes lurking in wait. Hector was right behind her on her off-paw-side, directing the way silently with a motion of his paw once they entered the village proper. The noisome miasma of decay filled Aya's nostrils as they slipped past decrepit cottage after decrepit cottage, past yards filled with weeds and empty bottles, past shuttered shops with broken boards failing in their design at keeping the elements -both natural and undesirable- at bay.

Their target was just ahead: one of the village's pubs. A few candles flickered inside, barely visible through the grimy windows. Moving shadows indicated there were beasts awake and ambulatory, but it was impossible to tell how many there were. Aya was unable to see any guards posted outside; a stroke of luck, if it would only hold true.

The troupe sidled up to the building, crouching below window level as they caught their collective breath and prepared to deal with the beasts within. Snatches of conversation leaked out through a crack in the front door, peppering the air with rude oaths and boasts of accomplishment. Aya wound her sling more tightly to her paw, prepared to used it more as a flail than a sling in the confines of the pub. She drew her knife at Hector's signal, and followed him inside.

"This place is dirty! I'd go back to Walkin's, but even his tables haven't been wiped off for days now-"

The complainant was cut short by the entrance of the strange fox followed closely by a squirrel and two martens. The kitnappers inside were frozen in hesitancy for a moment, weapons and masks strewn about on grime-covered tables between half-eaten pasties and completely-empty bottles as they were caught in the act of packing. Realizing the danger, the villains grabbed for their weapons and started to beat a retreat toward the back room as the troupe rushed them silently, hoping to engage them in combat before they could set up a hue and cry for their comrades. Fjord and the females would be blocking the exits, preventing any escapes... but now to fight.

Aya picked a particularly foul-looking rat as her opponent, mindful of the club he grabbed from a nearby table. She spun her sling in a tight circle, then sent it arcing -still closed- toward the rat's weapon-paw. The confused look on his face when the sling didn't go for his head changed to a grimace of agony as the force of the impact cracked several knuckles. His maw opened to loose a howl of pain but Aya's footpaw connected with his abdomen first, knocking the wind out of him and rendering him mute as he stumbled back a few paces. Behind him, Aya saw two lithe figures slink out a door, but she didn't have time to do more than hope the females (she mentally classed Fjord with them) would do their duty. A flick of her wrist and the sling wound itself once around the rat's knees, where a yank-and-shove sent him toppling to the floor. Aya grabbed the club from where it had fallen from the rat's shattered paw and clocked him on the back of his noggin. The rat convulsed and then lay still.


	68. Good Country People

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 67. Good Country People  
**

_by Shandi  
_

There always had to be consequences; that was one of the many annoying constants of life. The thought did little to comfort Shandi as she sat at a booth at the deserted Goodlibeast Inn with her bushy tail curled about her, forcing down foul willow bark tea. She'd had worse headaches, but it was still painful enough to be getting on with.

"Oi, you! Hamster. More scones," she growled. "And don't be stingy with the jam and cream this time, either."

"Right away, Miss," Ollie trilled, humming to himself as he dropped his wet rag on one of the tables and waddled back to the kitchen.

The squirrel's ears pricked at the telltale tinkling of Xenera's leg bracelets, and sure enough, the aged raven wandered in. Shandi slunk down in her booth, but too late; the bird spotted her and stalked over, muttering idly to herself,

"Flowers, big ones!  
Flowers, small ones!  
Yellow, blue, red and pink ones.  
Big, small, flowers all,  
I like yellow best of all..."

"Eh, what?" Shandi raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, nothing," said the raven. "Just a poem one of my ancestors wrote. Been in the family for ages. Not very good though, is it? Oh well, it just sticks in my old head these days. Anyway, I'm rather parched. I just got back from Admiral Honeybeak's—I See for him sometimes, you see. That's a rather funny turn of phrase, isn't it? You see that I See? I think so."

Shandi's eyebrow stretched upward for all it was worth. "Right."

"I don't _really_ See, you see. My mother was a _bona fide_ seer though, or at least that's what she told me. I saw there was good gold to be had in it, so naturally that's what made me choose this particular career path."

"...Right."

"Anyway, anyway!" Xenera chortled. "I'm not back for two seconds before Tristram hurtles up to me and tells me to tell you that your friends Demitri and Dominic have gone missing. So...your friends Demitri and Dominic have gone missing."

"They're not my friends," Shandi said, and then the full meaning of the statement caught up with her. "Wait, what? Missing? I thought ye were all watching every move we made. How is that possible?"

Xenera shrugged. "Not sure, but they're pulling together more search parties to go look for them, and Tristram was wondering if you'd be interested."

"Where's Vikraja?"

"Again, not sure, she might be out search...searching..."

The raven closed her rheumy eyes, and for a moment Shandi thought that her age had finally caught up with her. When she opened them again, they rolled madly in her skull, and she leapt onto the table, scattering bits of scone everywhere. Her feathery breast puffed up, plumage ruffled, Xenera whirled, fixing Shandi with a perilous eye.

"Redwall," she said. But it wasn't Xenera's voice, not really. It had no trace of its usual light-hearted, ethereal tone, but it was strong, firm, and somehow more masculine.

Shandi was much too confounded by this sudden turn of events to formulate any kind of intelligent reply. She might have uttered a vague, "Buh?" But she wasn't sure. She wilted beneath the raven's intense gaze, afraid she might actually attack her. A paw instinctively inched toward her belt cord.

"Leave the axe, Shandi Fen. I mean you no harm," Xenera commanded.

The squirrel wasn't sure why she did as the bird told her. The haunting voice was somehow deadly as a firestorm and gentle as a meadow breeze all at once.

"Who are ye?" Shandi asked. "Ye're not just playing a prank, are ye?"

"You are correct," the voice answered. "As for who I am, I go by many names. I am the Swordbearer, the Protector. I am the Guiding Spirit of Redwall Abbey."

"Eh...Ye're sure ye're not just having me on? Because if ye are, I will not hesitate in taking yer head and shoving it up yer feathery arse."

Xenera's head moved jerkily up and down, as if an invisible puppet master were manipulating the strings. "You must trust me, Shandi Fen. There is little time. You must find Dominic and Ella and return to Redwall. Something terrible is about to happen, and there is still a chance that it can be prevented."

The squirrel snorted. "Thanks, but no thanks, mate. If ye're really the Protector of Redwall or whatever, then ye might've noticed ye failed to protect yer own abbess. Oh, and all the beasts that got crushed by the chunks of yer building there. Maybe if ye'd done a better job, I wouldn't have a price on my head, eh? Maybe I wouldn't be hunted down like a filthy dog and trapped in this fates-forsaken town for the rest of my life.

"And that's another thing; even if I wanted to go to Redwall, I thought yer lot—er, I mean, _their_ lot—won't let us out of their sight. So...aye. I'm not going."

The spirit waited patiently within Xenera, blinking the bird's eyes. "If you stay, they will find you. They are searching harder than ever. And not only you...They will find Tristram. They will kill him."

Shandi swallowed hard. "So what ye're saying is...either he dies, or I do? Seems hardly..."

"I will protect you."

"Like ye protected the abbess, ye mean?"

Xenera's wings extended, flapping harshly. "I have no more patience for your Dibbun-like comments! Go now. Join a search party and slip away. Find Dominic and Ella. If you value Tristram's life, you will do as I say."

"Er, scones?"

Ollie had sidled up to the table unannounced, holding a tray of scones. "Hello, Miss Xenera. I see you've decided to perch on the table today. That's nice. A change of pace always keeps life interesting, that's what my grandaddy always used to say..."

"Huh? I...what?" Xenera shook her head hard, her voice faraway and breathless once more. "I guess I am on the table. How about that."

She sheepishly hopped down. "I suppose I ought to go, really. Must be tired from the flight, if it's making me do such loony things."

She scuttled out as fast as her aged legs would carry her. Ollie set the tray on the table.

"Scones, Miss? Miss?"

Shandi was staring at the door, her brow furrowed. "Damn it. I'd better go too."

She slid out of the booth and headed for the door, leaving Ollie by himself.

"Ah, okay. Have a good rest of the day, Miss! I'll just...I'll just see if Cavern wants these scones then, shall I? Er, or something. Yes."

Five golden lantern lights bobbed about Mossflower Woods, their tin handles giving off the occasional creak. Shandi was just thankful Tristram hadn't asked to have her join his search party. If she really had to give them the slip, she knew it'd be next to impossible with him there. He always seemed to see right through her.

Still, it was going to be tricky enough without him. Penny and Cones seemed like true bumpkins. They didn't bother her. Dergruf probably wouldn't be a bother either. Gormlaith, on the other paw...Shandi watched the ferret out of the corner of her eye. Her sinewy body twisted this way and that as her sharp eyes inspected every leaf, twig and stone that looked even remotely out of place. She was a natural hunter. She may be a problem.

As fate would have it, though, there was no need to formulate an elaborate escape plan. Shandi's ears, sharper than Gormlaith's, pricked to the sound of voices. The squirrel's breath left her in a vicious hiss, and without a word to the others, she tore through the undergrowth toward the sound.

Shandi followed the voices, biting back a snarl at the one readily familiar one, which was currently whining about whether or not they were going in the right direction. She stumbled into a clearing and sure enough...

_"Dominic!"_ she roared as her lamp light fell across the lanky weasel. "Where the ruddy hell d'ye think ye're going?"

Rod gave her a bit of a sheepish grin. Shandi blinked, surprised to see him there. Another weasel, this one female, tugged Dominic's arm. "Time to go!"

Dominic clutched Ella tight to him. Rod grabbed another weasel kit—or maybe _that_ was Ella; they all looked about the same to her—and the five of them made their escape, hauling heavy rucksacks along with them.

"No! Get back here, ye flaming git!" Shandi panted. "We have to go back to Redwall!"

Shandi had but two questions spring to mind: Why did everybeast have to run all the time? And would it still count if she dragged Dominic's stinking, fly-eaten carcass to Redwall?

"Have you lost your mind? They'll kill us both if we go to Redwall! Go on if you like, but leave me out of it!" Dominic cried over his shoulder.

"Dom, shut up and run!"

"Belette, too! Leave Belette alone! We don't want to live at Rillrock forever! You can't make us!"

"_Dominic_!"

The weasel's tone dissolved into a pathetic plea. "We promise not to tell anyone about the Sentinels! Just stop chasing us!"

"There she is!"

_Damn._ They'd caught up with her. Gormlaith jogged into the clearing, followed by Penny, Dergruf, and Cones.

"What was that?" Gormlaith growled. "Did you find Dominic?"

"Aye. He's with Belette and Rod. They just took off."

"Belette and Rod?" Gormlaith repeated suspiciously. "They're not on a search party."

"Ye think I'm lying, polecat?" Shandi spat. "Chase after 'em and see fer yerself. They went that way."

And so they ran, of course. Because the blasted beasts never seemed to want to walk anywhere, like a normal creature. Shandi breathed hard, sweat beginning to crop up under her fur, despite the cold. Gormlaith led the group, her limbs moving fluidly to propel her forward. Shandi looked at her own shuffling strides, wondering how the ferret made it look so effortless. Her lungs burned. A stitch caught in her chest.

Shandi could hear voices ahead of them once again, becoming clearer with each step.

"Ella's slipping!" Dominic cried.

"Drop your damn sack of dishes and hold onto her! I'm not carrying _two_ kits!" Rod growled in response.

"But they're _Ella_'s dishes! She needs them!"

"Poppy, wan' go Redwall! Martin says," Ella added with a wail.

Belette's exasperated pant cut across the kit's cries. "Dom, I'll buy her new dishes, just _drop them and run_!"

Something clattered to the ground ahead of them. Gormlaith leapt over the spilled sack of dishes, the others dodging around it. Dark shapes materialized out of the trees in front of them. Gormlaith veered off to the right and put on a spurt of speed. A few moments later and Shandi nearly ran into Cones's back. Dominic, Belette, Rod, and the two kits had halted. Gormlaith had cut them off, the long, curved dagger in her claws gleaming wickedly in the lantern light.

"Belette, what are you doing?" the ferret demanded.

"Nothing! We found Dominic. Isn't that what we were supposed to do?"

"Then why'd ye run away?" Shandi rasped between sharp breaths, pushing herself to the forefront.

"We were taking him back! Excuse us for not wanting to lolly-gag around here with a bunch of bounty hunters on the loose."

Shandi rolled her eyes. "Oh, come on. D'ye really expect us to swallow that? Dominic's been trying to get out of Rillrock from day one."

"I never wanted to be _in_ Rillrock in the first place!" said Dominic.

Gormlaith's eyes narrowed to slits. She pointed her dagger at Belette. "Who are you working for?"

The weasel's eyes widened. "Nobeast! How...how dare you accuse us..."

"If you're so innocent, then you won't mind comin' back to Rillrock and letting us get to the bottom o' this, will you, Missy?" Dergruf said.

"I hope for your sake you're telling the truth; I trust you know how the Council deals with traitors?" Gormlaith said, her face deadly serious. "Cones, grab Miss Belette, would you?"

The lizard shuffled forward, and his eyes met Belette's. Their silent exchange lasted a moment too long for Shandi's comfort, but before she could do anything to alert the group to her suspicion, Cones turned and caught Gormlaith a hefty blow to the face before tackling the ferret to the ground. Penny and Dergruf intercepted Rod as he made to help Cones. Belette took hold of the other weasel kit's paw and moved closer to Dominic.

"Belette! Take the kits! Go! I'll hold them off!" Dominic passed Ella to Belette and turned to face Shandi, waving his fists wildly in the air.

If the situation hadn't been so serious, Shandi would've burst out laughing at the sight of him. It was clear Dominic meant business, though, and Shandi was sure she'd heard some saying about cornered beasts being the most dangerous. He threw a few poorly aimed punches, which Shandi deflected. Maybe that saying was just a load of woodpigeon droppings.

"Knock it off, Dominic. Don't make me hit ye."

This only seemed to anger Dominic further, and the mustelid's punches became more and more erratic. "_You_ knock it off! Just leave us alone!"

His fist managed to clip her ear. Shandi had had enough. Her own fist shot out and Dominic went down hard, clutching his snout. Blood blossomed from between his paws.

"If I had a hammer," he wheezed, still slightly cross-eyed, "I'd've bashed your brains out."

"Shut up and stay down, if'n ye know what's good fer ye." Shandi spat at his footpaws before moving over to where Gormlaith and Cones were grappling. The ferret emerged victorious, pulling her crimson blade from the lizard's chest and kicking his body aside. The left side of her face had been torn horribly by the monitor's claws.

"Come on, get these traitors rounded up and back to Rillrock," she gritted, her voice wavering with pain.

"Gorm, you're hurt!" Penelope cried.

"Nothing!" the ferret roared. "Traitors can't hurt me."

"Oh!" the mouse gasped.

"Penny, what is it? Penny? _Penny_!"

Shandi stared numbly at the arrow protruding from the mouse's middle. But...nobeast here had a bow. It made no sense...It couldn't have happened.

"I said a warning shot! A _warning shot_!" a voice bellowed from the undergrowth.

"I'm sorry!" another voice, shrill with shock, cried out.

Suddenly Mossflower was alive with creatures; woodlanders and vermin alike poured in, and even a sparrow dove down from the treetops and hit Dergruf like a thunderbolt.

Chaos reigned. Shandi pulled her axes free and hurtled toward the spot from which the arrow had been fired, slashing at a wiry otter that made to grab her as she passed. She spotted a haremaid fumbling with her bow. Gormlaith rushed past her, bloodied mouth opened in a silent snarl of anguish.

Without thinking, Shandi stopped and hurled one of her axes with all her might. The hare shrieked and toppled over, the axe buried deep in her chest.

_"She was mine!"_ Gormlaith bellowed.

"Listen, just get back and tell Tristram what's happened," Shandi said. "There's nothing ye can do. Find us at Redwall."

The ferret stood uncertainly, blood dripping from her chin.

_"Go!"_ Shandi roared in her face. "_Now_, damn it!"

Shandi felt paws grabbing at her and she whirled, slashing about her indiscriminately with her axe. She caught a quick glance over her shoulder, but Gormlaith had gone.

Then something heavy smacked her in the back of the head. Shandi's legs buckled and her face met the cold, hard forest floor.

"Hello, Sis. Good to see you again," an irritatingly familiar voice laughed.

Stars danced before Shandi's vision. She raised her aching head as Linnet attached a pair of heavy manacles to her wrists, too stunned to try and stop her. Dergruf and the sparrow were both dead, their bodies marred by horrific wounds. Dominic had also been cuffed and was screaming threats at anybeast that came near Ella or the other two weasels.

Shandi closed her eyes, groaning. Some protection _this_ was.


	69. I'm Merely an Instrument

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 68. I'm Merely an Instrument  
**

_by Cecil  
_

_"Mamma! Mamma! Lookit!" a younger Cecil Sassafras shouted as he scampered up the grand staircase and down the halls of his family's small manor, nearly tripping over his own bushy tail in glee. The squirrel kit scurried down the long corridors as fast as his little paws would carry him, opening and slamming doors repeatedly as he searched through the many chambers for his mother._

"Mamma?" he said, opening another door. Cecil stared inside and, seeing it was empty and bare, he stood on his tiptoes, fumbled with the knob, and then pulled it shut. "Mamma!" he moved to the next door.

"Young master?"

The kit's large ears twitched. Twisting around, he allowed his wide, blue eyes to fall on the voice's source. A hogmaid, carrying a feather duster and garbed in the ragged attire of a typical scullery maid, curtsied.

"Are ya lookin' for yer momma, little 'un?" she asked.

Cecil nodded frantically. "Uh-huh." He pointed a grubby claw at a thin sheet of parchment he held in his other paw. "I wan'ed te' show 'er dis song dat Nanny P'udence helped me write. It i'n't done yet but s'e sed 't'were bootiful."

Grinning, the servant nodded. "Mmm-hmm, 'M sure it is." She placed her feather duster in her apron pocket. "'M s'posed t' be on duty, but, if'n ya don't tell on me, I think I kin help find 'er fer ya."

The squirrelkit immediately performed the Dibbun-swear, drawing a cross over his heart, buttoning his lips and locking them shut, then swallowing the key, and nodded. "I won', I p'omise."

"A'right then, ya rascal, I guess I'll take yer word fer it," she replied, ruffling his headfur. "I think I know where she may be. Follow me."

Setting off, the duo made their way through the winding halls, passing by countless polished elm tables set with decorative pots laced with silver, and filled with tangling ivy and soft pink, sweet-scented roses, until they found themselves at a set of thick oaken doors.

Cecil didn't wait for a response and, instead, barreled past the bewildered servant, muttering quick 'thank yous' as he tugged open the heavy doors and scurried inside.

The room he now stood inside was a massive master bedroom, nearly the size of one of the tiny cottages in the town's outskirts. Crimson curtains of soft velvet draped unused at the sides of open windows, pale sunlight flooding into the area and illuminating the few hovering dust motes the maids had missed. Solid mahogany armchairs were sat by a stocked, brick fireplace, prepared for the coming, cold winter nights like silent warriors awaiting their enemy.

A colossal bed, able to fit at least eight beasts, was the centerpiece of the bedroom. Carved by the paw of some highly-skilled craftsbeast, the frame was made from a soft, sturdy wood with an oaken finish. On top of the overstuffed mattress was a regal quilt, made from exquisite silks that had been shipped from the north.

With a happy squeak, Cecil caught sight of his mother, Adela Sassafras, by her wardrobe mirror, tying the last strings of her corset. The lady squirrel barely had a chance to react before her son bounded up to her, the lad taking a tremendous leap and landing neatly in his mother's arms.

She took a step back to regain her balance from the sudden weight. The squirrel smiled. "I see you're up early."

Cecil nodded. "Uh-huh, Nanny P'udence woke me up."

"Oh, did she?" His mother frowned as she brushed a clump of loose dirt off of the young one's fur. "And where'd she take you this time? You've got filth all over you."

The lad smiled mischievously. "The city."

"Oh, really? Where in the city?" she asked.

"Umm… the place where all the shops are."

"The marketplace?"

He nodded. "Uh-huh. Dere was a bunch o' beasts dere. At least a jillion."

Playing along, the lady brushed off another patch of dust and replied, "A jillion? That's certainly a bit. Do you remember any of them?"

Cecil put a claw to his chin. "One," he said after a few moments. "A fosker wid a funny name."

"A fox with a funny name?"

"Uh-huh, she was playin' music."

"Really? Did it sound any good?" Adela replied.

The squirrel shook his head.

"It didn't?"

The squirrelkit stared off into space. "It… it sounded really, really, really good. It sounded bootiful." He couldn't get the sound, the tingling sensation as each string on her instrument was plucked, out of his head… or rather, his ears. The sound, the music, had followed him home like his shadow, not seeming to want to leave him.

A spark of realization hit the squirrel. "Oh! I almost fergot." He pressed the thin sheet of folded parchment into his mother's paws. "It's a song."

She looked at it curiously and set the lad down. She unfolded it and began reading it. As her eyes scanned the page, a smile worked its way onto her face.

Cecil watched in awe. The same thing had happened when the fox had begun her song and, this time; there wasn't any music to go along with it. And yet, the same heartfelt smile seemed glued to his mother's face, not seeming to fade in the slightest as the seconds ticked away. It felt light, rewarding, and nurturing. It was the warmest feeling he had ever felt. Almost like the music of the vixen's song. Was it possible that something like that could have such an effect on a beast? Surely it was a jest.

"Y-Yew like it?" he piped up.

"More than like it," she replied. Cecil felt his mother's touch as she grasped his paw in hers. "Come on. Let's show your father."

-.0.-

Cecil stared at the heavy set of doors that loomed in front of him like two massive leviathans, ready to swallow him up into a dark oblivion where there was no escape, or, as he liked to call it: his father's office.

He gulped.

Daddy's office was his_ office. Nobeast ever went inside while he was working unless he specifically asked them too. And lately, all he was doing was working._

"Go on," his mother urged him, waving her paws forward and snapping him out of his trance.

Cecil tugged anxiously at the lace cravat that adorned his neck and stepped forward. He stopped. "But what if he doesn't like it?"  
"He will, trust me. I'm sure it'll put a big smile on his face."  
The squirrelkit ambled up to the door and raised his paw to knock on it. Giving one last tentative glance backwards, he tapped one quiet time on the door.

Tap.__

No response.

He swallowed and peeked to where his mother waited patiently. She was only a few steps away. Only a few steps, and he could be in her loving embrace once again and feel safe. And only a few steps away was the cold stare of his father.

He shivered.

Tap.

Tap.__

Cecil cracked open an eyelid. The sound that reverberated from the soft wood as his claws made contact sounded almost soothing. Almost like music.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap. Tap Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap. Tap Tap.

Tap.

Ta-__

"WHAT!"

Tap.__

Cecil gulped and turned the handle. He hesitantly pushed the door open, tentatively glancing around its base at the room's interior. Sitting behind a well-polished, mahogany desk set with a solid marble countertop, an older squirrel, dressed in a bright-auburn frock coat and beginning to grey about the muzzle with a combination of age and stress, sat, tapping a quill pen impatiently on the rim of an ink barrel. A soft violet shade circling his eyes like a mask shone through pale orange fur, giving the impression that the lord hadn't slept in days.

"What do_ you need? Surely you have already dusted in here, correct?" Lord Cecil Sassafras the First barked. He glanced at an older squirrel sitting across from him. "Dearly sorry, father, the maids do not usually interrupt me when I am in the middle of a meeting. But, of course, _you_ already knew that, did you not?"_

The other squirrel, a complete mirror image of the lord aside from a completely grey snout and wrinkles covering him from head to tail, grumbled sullenly.

"Daddy?" Cecil said as he stepped into view of the two older squirrels.

His father's eyes widened. "Cecil."

The graying squirrel chuckled, but it came out as more of a wheeze. Cecil turned to him. Grandpa Nick liked to chuckle, especially when his father had eyes like that.

"Yes?" his father asked. "What is it? I'm very busy."

The kit tightened his grip on the parchment. "Um… I… wan'ed t' show ya somthin'."

"Is it another bug?"

Cecil shook his head.

"Well, on with it then," Cecil Sr. replied. "What is it?"

The squirrelkit hesitantly ambled forth and pressed it into his father's paws. Cecil Sr. snatched it from his paws and began reading its contents, his eyes moving back in their sockets like a predator watching his prey.

"It-It's a song," Cecil told him.

"I know."

The squirrelkit looked down at his footpaws, twiddling his claws anxiously. "Dere was a fox playin' music in the city and I liked it, so… I wrote it. It's not fin-"

"'Blue' is spelled B-L-U-E, not B-L-O-O."

Cecil shrank back.

With an emotionless frown on his face, the lord set the parchment down and turned back to his own father. "As I was saying before we were interrupted, father, I simply believe-"

"D-Did yew like it?"

The lord's father grinned. "Yes, Cecil, did you like it?"

Cecil's father was silent save for his breathing. He turned to his son. "Not now, I'm busy. Go on now, I'm sure Prudence is missing you."

Cecil swallowed and nodded sullenly. Taking a step forward, he recovered his song off of the polished surface of the desk, cradling the soft parchment close to him as he made his way out of the office. The kit took a final glance behind him.

Then he ran.

Cecil ignored his mother as he darted past her, leaving behind countless puddles of salty tears as each one cascaded from his face and hit the smooth marble floor with a splash. He wiped his face with his sleeve. She had said he would like it. She had said it would bring back his smile again.

The squirrelkit collapsed to his knees and sobbed.

"Cecil?"

He felt somebeast grab him and cradle him motherly.

"What are ye doin' here in the middle of the hallway? What happened."

Cecil buried his head in Prudence's dress, muttering an explanation between choked sobs. "I-I-I… h-he didn' like it."

The badger harrumphed. "Well, what does he know? Did yer mum like it?"

Cecil nodded.

"Well that's what matters," Prudence replied. "Ye wanna know a secret?"

The kit's ears perked up. "Huh?" he nodded.

"I_ liked it."_

Cecil couldn't help but grin.

"But, of course…" she began, "the song ain't finished yet. Which means, yer goin' t' have t' finish it one day and show it t' him again. And if'n he doesn't like it that time… well ye gotta try and try again, and ye' gotta never give up."

Cecil glanced at the parchment and nodded.

"Do ye promise?"

He nodded once more. "I promise." 

-.0.-

Cecil flinched as yet another drop of cold water- if it _was_ water- dripped from the roof of his cell and onto his fur. He shivered and pulled his tail around him like a makeshift coat.  
Another tiny drop of the chilly liquid fell against his head. He held his ground against the not-so-vicious onslaught, sitting through every drop. It was worth it, as the dankest area of his cell was also the only area with any amount of light, no matter how dim it was.

He glanced around him at his new accommodations. The cell he occupied was more of a small storage closet with a barred door than anything else. It was puny enough that the squirrel could walk to the opposite wall and back in little under three paces. The walls, ceiling, and floor were made of the coldest stone Cecil had ever set paw on and even the prison's barred door was cold to the touch.

He could only hope that the kits had better conditions.

That little vermin- _Daskin_ as he was apparently named- had left them there in the cells, only caring about his own affairs rather than the squirrel's or the kits'. And yet, the ferret was merely a kit too. Did he even know any better?

Cecil adjusted his position against the cold wall, holding up a yellowed parchment to the thin stream of light shining from under the cellar dungeon's door and into his cell. It illuminated its smooth surface dimly, allowing the squirrel to read its contents if he squinted his eyes right.

_"Roses are red, violets are bloo blue,  
You know that I love you.  
I take your paw and you take mine,  
"Ain't this evenin' awfully fine?"  
We dance together, young and free,  
Because we were always meant to be."_

Cecil chuckled. It was terrible and amateurish; a song that was easily recognizable as being written by a six-season-old kit. And yet, the squirrel smiled at what he had told himself so long ago. This would be his best song, the song that beasts would sing and hum as he passed, getting it trapped in other beasts' heads until they hummed the tune too. It would be the song that would be known by everybeast, all over the land, because of its connection to them. Love was a topic anybeast could relate to. But only one of those many beasts did he truly care about. Only one that he truly _had_ to satisfy, no matter how long it took.

That was the dream.

Cecil sighed.

It was funny how dreams could turn out.

He reached into his pocket and produced a charcoal stick. At least the brutes had done one reasonable thing, doing away with his bonds for the night and allowing him some time to write his ballad. He pressed the stick's point onto the paper and closed his eyes.

Love. That was what the song was about.

He shook his head, dismissing the thought. No, not love. _Their love._That was all the song was going to be about. Their love, the times he spent with her, and everything in-between. It would be as beautiful to the ears as she had been to his eyes.

Cecil closed his eyes once more to concentrate.

_Plip._

The squirrel cracked open an eyelid in time to see another drop of the liquid drip from the ceiling. He watched carefully, waiting for another patiently.

_Plip._

Having memorized the rhythm to his makeshift metronome, Cecil went back to his writing, wondering what sort of music should accompany the lyrics once he escaped and had recovered his lute.

"Plip," he voiced aloud without looking up as another drop of water fell and joined the collecting puddle on the floor below. It was a simple rhythm to memorize, consisting of only about six heartbeats between each beat. Almost as simple as the _real_ metronome he had kept in his dormitory back at Redwall, which only consisted of five.

He strummed a chord on an invisible lute, imagining the sound that would resonate from the instrument.

_Plip._

He moved his claws to an A chord, then to an E. Immediately following, he switched and played a G and a D.

_Plip._

Cecil moved his claws, strumming an E minor and then an F sharp.

Cecil smiled.

It would be a good intro to a good song. Melodious, yet ominous.

_Plip._

He played it again, going through the imaginary chords in a faster rhythm.

_Plip. Plip._

Cecil's eyes snapped open as the rhythm changed suddenly. He looked up to where a layer of dust drifted slowly from the ceiling. Had somebeast just tripped up there?

A dust mote tickled the bard's nose. He closed his eyes in preparation. "Ah-ah-ah-ahchoo!"

"Cecil?"

The squirrel's eyes widened. He knew that voice. Was that…?  
He slammed himself against the bars of his cell. "Aya!"

"Cecil!"

The cellar door busted from its hinges and fell to the floor with a thud as Aya slammed her weight against it. Panting, she smiled at him. "Well, well, if it isn't Featherhead, all locked up in a cell. If I remember correctly, you told me not to underestimate your thieving ability. I'm sure you have the keys by now, right?"

"Oh, shut it and get me out o' here, Aya," Cecil snapped.

Aya glared at him.

"Please?"

"Oh, the things I do to get a new shop," she grumbled, trotting down the cellar steps. The baker withdrew the ring of keys from where they hung on the wall and stuck the first one she saw into his cell's keyhole. She turned it but the key didn't budge.

"I think it's the smallest one," Cecil offered.

"That _was_ the smallest one," Aya snapped.

"Well the next smallest then."

"I can't tell which one is the next smallest! They all look the same!" She wedged another key into the hole and turned to no avail.

"I'm only trying to be helpful," Cecil replied.

"Well, you're not!" she scowled.

"To think, I actually _missed_ your company."

Aya groaned and turned the next key. The resonating click sounded like music to Cecil's ears.

Cecil didn't waste any time. He hurriedly pushed open the barred door and snatched the keys from Aya's paws, moving onto the other cells.

"What… what are you doing?" Aya said, grabbing his arm. She pointed to the door. "We don't have much time. We have to go _now!_"

"I'm not leaving kits here, Aya!" he snapped.

The squirrelmaid recoiled at the ferocity in his voice. "There are kits here?" the squirrel stood, dumb-founded. "Who are these beasts who captured you?"

Cecil fumbled with the keys, wedging one of them into the keyhole. "I… I think they murdered Dittany." Cecil couldn't hide the snarl in his voice.

_Click._

Cecil pulled open the barred door and stepped inside the kits' cell.

Aya scowled. "Getting it open on your first try. Ha, beginner's luck."

The bard ignored her, scooping up a mousebabe from where it lay asleep on a pile of straw and moving to where the hogmaid from earlier lay, resting her head on the stone floor. Cecil tapped her shoulder, waking her from her slumber, and motioned for her to follow him.

"How many are there?" Aya wondered.

Cecil adjusted the sleeping kit in his arms. "Counting these two? Three, if I remember correctly."

"One more then," she said, taking the keys from Cecil. "I'll take care of that one, and then we have to get out of here. We don't have much time left." The squirrelmaid produced a dagger from her belt. "Oh, and Cecil?"

"Hmm?"

Aya pressed the blade into his free paw. "You still owe me money so, to put it simply…" she said, "don't die, or I'll kill you."

Cecil smiled at the logic in the sentence, gripping the dagger tightly in his paw. "I wouldn't dream of it, Miss Aya."

-.0.-

Cecil readjusted the kit's weight in his arm as he followed Aya up the cellar steps, holding onto the dagger in his free paw firmly and standing in front of the two kits like a living shield.  
"Alright, Cecil, keep your eyes open just in case," he heard Aya say to him. "Fjord, Alastia, and Thera should be guarding the entrances. It'd be nearly impossible for anybeast to get in or out of here without having to go through them first."

"Wait for just a mere moment," Cecil said, "Fjord's here? But what about Mary?"

Aya shook her head. "I don't know, but he is."

Cecil watched as the other squirrel peeked around the broken doorway's frame, motioning with her paw for him to continue. He followed her direction, moving to where he could glance around the corner, as well.

"Did you do that?" he asked, referring to the still form of Trobes lying over a broken bar stool. He couldn't hide the wonder in his voice at how the squirrel had been able to take on the brute and win.

"Well, you know what they say," Aya began, seeming to read his mind, "the bigger they are, the harder they fall."

Cecil followed her out into the open, holding the dagger at the ready. He glanced around the area of the tavern, his eyes wandering over the unpolished tables that flashed a sheen revealing their grimy surfaces and the massive liquor cabinet filled with a heavy arsenal of different alcohols and drinks. It was a wonder how such a seemingly-ordinary bar as this could house a prison underneath.

"Did you?"

The squirrelmaid nudged the unconscious rat with her footpaw and shook her head. "That's what worries me."

"Well, all the more reason to make haste and, as some o' the more vulgar beasts would say…" Cecil began. He signaled to the kits following after him to cover their ears. "Get the 'Gates out o' here."

Aya nodded. "Agreed." She cupped her paws around her snout. "Hector, Fjord, I think we're ready!" she shouted.

"Fjord!" Cecil couldn't help but cry out as his friend appeared from around the corner with a fox.

"Cec," the hare replied. "Glad to see you still kicking about, wot?"

"Lady Luck hasn't stopped shining on me yet… I don't think," Cecil replied, bounding forward to his friend while Aya began engaging in a similar banter with Hector. "But what about you? What about Mary? Surely you could not have traveled to Salamandastron and back in only a single day?" Cecil could not believe the words coming from his mouth. Had it truly only been a day? It had felt like ages since he had last scene Fjord after the incident by the river.

"Mary can... well... she can wait. I couldn't bally well leave a fellow gentlebeast in the lurch. No Hollyhocks worth his ears and scut would abandon a chum in real and present danger," he answered. The hare gazed at kit in Cecil's arms and the other two standing closely behind the bard's bushy tail. "And look at you. Aren't you quite the fath…" He drifted off, realizing his mistake.

"Yes…" Cecil dropped his gaze. "I… suppose so. Do… do you think I would have made quite the husband too?"

"The very best, old top… Far better than me," Fjord answered.  
Cecil nodded sullenly.

"Aya," Hector's voice cut into their conversation, "where are Silver and Juniper?"

"How am I supposed to know?"

"You didn't look?"

"I did look!" Aya spat. "They weren't down there."

"What do you mean they weren't down there!"

"I mean, they weren't locked in the basement."

"If I could be of some assistance, I believe I could help with answering that question," Cecil piped up.

"Stow it, Featherhead," Aya snapped.

"No," Hector stopped her, "let him talk. So, what happened to them, squirrel? Where are they?" It sounded like a demand rather than a question.

Cecil recoiled away from the fox. "I was able to buy Juniper enough time for him to escape. As for Daskin Stirling, or _Silver_ as you lot seem to want to call him, he has left with the kitnappers."

"Left?" Hector repeated. "You mean he's still with them?"

Cecil nodded. "Voluntarily. A beast came for him and freed him."

The squirrel clenched his teeth. "And might I add that your little friend refused to free us as well. He left kits down there for 'Gates sa-"

"Gergreg, Gergreg!" the fox shouted. The two pine martens appeared almost instantly beside the fox. "Round up the others. We're leaving. Daskin and June aren't here. We need to find to them." He turned to leave.

_Dittany._

Cecil gulped and, before he realized what he was doing, he put his dagger to the back of the fox's neck. "I'm dearly sorry about this but… I… you're a suspect. You're going to have to come back to Redwall with me first."

Aya drew her own dagger. "Aye, you're under arrest."

The tension heightened between the six adults in the tavern as silence filled the air like mist on an autumn morning. Cecil glanced anxiously at Aya, keeping the blade pressed to Hector's neck. The acting troupe was like a snake. The fox was the leader, the head, while the others formed the serpent's body. If he could capture him, cut off the head, the troupe would be lost without their leader. They'd have no choice but to follow.

"Paws in the air now!" Aya demanded. Hector smiled. The two Gergregs looked uncertain.

"Very well," Hector answered the baker.

And then he punched Cecil in the snout.

Cecil spun from the impact, losing his balance and slipping. The squirrel instinctively flipped over onto his back to protect the kit in his arms from any harm as he hit the ground with a thud.

"Don't move!" Aya commanded the fox, keeping her dagger point trained on him.

"Cec, are you alright?" Fjord asked.

"Fine." Cecil staggered to his footpaws, sitting the kit on top of a table. It was a wonder that he hadn't woken up. He brushed himself off and recovered his dagger from where it lay on the floor. He put the blade into his belt.

"Did you murder Dittany?"

A long silence reigned until, finally, Hector chuckled. "So what if I did?"

He had laughed. He had treated it like it was a joke, like she hadn't even mattered at all. She was the leader of Redwall Abbey and she was dead, and he had laughed.

Cecil wanted nothing more than to tell the fox the truth, that he had loved her. That he would drive a dagger through the vermin's heart if he had actually killed her. Hector might feel sympathy. He would understand why the squirrel wanted the murderer to receive justice. He would stop laughing. But would that be any way to truly honor her memory, telling everybeast that she was a lying, deceptive beast who ignored the rules of her position, gone behind the Order's back, and fallen in love with him? She'd be the shame of the abbey, having slept with a resident of the abbey, a vagabond nonetheless, on multiple occasions. No, he couldn't risk that.

Cecil returned the blow, his punch fueled by raw anger as it smashed into Hector's face with a crunch. Sympathy could wait.

He had laughed.

"You killed her, didn't you!" Cecil didn't know what was happening. Was he yelling? "That's why you ran! You killed her! You killed Dittany! You killed my-" Cecil stopped himself before he could get any further. No, this wasn't happening. He shook his head. This wasn't real.

_Dittany, what's happening to me?_

"Cec," Fjord said.

Cecil looked at the unconscious body of Hector, his mind exploding with thoughts.

_"Besides, you're the only lass who's ever loved me. Why would I want to leave you?_

"But- But… you didn't…" _You didn't tell me you would leave_ me.

A tear streaked down his cheek.

"Cecil," Aya said, "are you-"

"I need a moment." Cecil slumped into a chair. He tasted blood on his tongue from where the fox had hit him, the warm, metallic taste sending a shiver down his spine.

They were vermin, all of them.

And yet, Cecil knew they hadn't killed her. Even if they were guilty of her murder, they hadn't killed her. He had let her leave on that fateful night. If it hadn't been for him, she would still be alive, the treaty would be in effect, and none of this would have happened. He could have taken her place if he had simply been more chivalrous. No beast would have cared if had died in her stead. He was just a bard.

He had killed her.

And then he wept.

"I-I-I'm so sorry, m-my love," he practically shouted. "If it wasn't for me…"

"Hector," a new voice joined the mob of beasts, breaking the spell that had hold of the bard, "we need to go. Now!" Alastia anxiously demanded.

"About that…" Fjord said. "I don't think he's going anywhere at the moment, wot."

Alastia stared blankly at Hector's insensible body.

"Wot's wrong?" a kit asked. "Are _dey_ back?"

Cecil glanced anxiously in the direction of the front door of the tavern, gripping the hilt of his dagger. If they had returned…  
At that moment, the door crashed open and Thera stumbled in, three beasts, all wearing the uniform of the Redwall City Guard, following behind. The vixen struggled against a length of rope binding her paws behind her back.

Cecil dropped the blade to the floor, a resounding, metallic thud answering the action.

With two beasts laying unconscious on the ground, three kits who had gone missing, and an array of the suspects for the abbess' murder all in the same room, Cecil could only smile and say three words.

"Why, hello there."


	70. A Tale of Two Gergregs

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 69. A Tale of Two Gergregs  
**

_by Fjord  
_

**With thanks to Juniper for his invaluable assistance with this post.**

_"Mama, h'come ya named me'n Gergreg th' same thing?" Gergreg asked, staring up at his mother with wide brown eyes as he helped her sort through piles of rubbish for bits of metal. His brother had gone to ask the same thing of Papa at the smithy._

"We were only expecting one of you," Mama said, sniffing at a moldy hunk of bread before taking a bite. She pulled a face, but didn't spit it out, merely pawed it over to her son. "Didn't have any other names picked out. Besides, you looked the same. And you're not really_ named the same thing. Your name's his name backwards."_

"Oh." They continued sorting until Gergreg could no longer suppress the shout welling up inside of him. "But th' kits in th' village says they can't tell a'tween us! They think me'n Gergreg is a'zactly th' same!"

Mama didn't bother to pause in her sorting. "Aren't you?"

O~O~O

_"Well, then, my lucky lads, I think you'll do the trick." Hector grinned, clapping his paws together as the trio sat about the campfire on the outskirts of the village. "What are your names?"_

"Gergreg," the pine marten in the blue shirt and gray pants said.

"Gergreg," the pine marten in the gray shirt and blue pants added.

"Eh? You trying to be funny?" the fox asked, frowning. "You can't both be named 'Gergreg'."

"We're not," the Gergreg in the blue shirt replied, the tired mantra rising to his lips on reflex. "My name's a palindrome of his."

"A palindrome," Hector deadpanned.

"It means my name is his name... only backwards," the Gergreg in the gray shirt supplied.

"I know what a palindrome is, lad," the fox said, a slight quirk of his lips indicating amusement rather than the perplexity with which the martens had become accustomed. "Still, this is going to get confusing. Can't I call one of you by a nickname?"

The Gergregs blinked at one another. "Why?"

The response didn't seem to phase the fox at all. "I've seen this before," he said without missing a beat. "Two squirrels, one named Tippit and the other Tippit. Went by Tip and Pit, respectively. Worked quite well, as I recall. Point is, I'm not going to play this game, lads. I need to be able to tell you apart and know who I'm calling. You," he said, pointing to the Gergreg with the gray shirt, "you're Gergreg, and you," he continued, shifting his claw to indicate the Gergreg with the blue shirt, "you're Gergreg. It's backwards, you see. Happy? I am. And that's all that really matters."

"Wait a minute," the blue-shirted pine marten interjected. "What if I want to be called Gergreg?"

"Hey now, he's the boss, isn't he?" the grey-shirted pine marten replied. "If he wants me to be Gergreg, I think I should be Gergreg."

"Hmph! You're only saying that because you want_ to be called Gergreg!"_

"I think it has a certain ring to it, yes."

"But that's not fair! I_ want to be called Gergreg!"_

Hector chuckled. "Aye, you two'll fit in nicely. Now, get over to the cart and help Thera and Envie load the props. I'm going to go see a wildcat who says she can act..."

O~O~O

"Gergreg!" Thera cried. "Do something!"

Gergreg stared at his brother as the other marten leapt into action, grabbing Gergreg and Alastia's wrists and sprinting toward the back of the tavern before anybeast could stop them.

"Oi!"

Gergreg slammed Alastia into the backdoor. The cat shrieked, but the solid mass of her did the trick, snapping the door off its hinges. The trio – Alastia yowling in protest – cleared the wreckage and made off into the gloom eclipsing Veil Village.

They ran through the muddy streets, past the dregs of society who chose the witching hour to scuttle about their unwholesome business. Behind, the martens and cat heard shouts and even the shrill cry of some sort of bird, but they kept their heads low to the ground, running along hedges toward the outskirts of the village.

Passing the last hovel, Gergreg plowed on, breaching the tree line and plunging the trio into Mossflower Wood. Branches whipped at their faces, thorns snagged their clothes, and wayward roots threatened to trip them up. Still, the marten did not pause.

"S-stop!" Gergreg finally managed when his lungs felt close to collapsing. He'd been trying to hold his tongue, but now he'd bitten it, and it tasted like iron. His brother didn't even slow down. "Stop!" Gergreg planted his footpaws, which caused all three of the troupe members to go sprawling.

"Hells, bells, and buckets of blood!" Gergreg snarled, picking himself up. "What the _'Gates_ did you do that for, Gergreg?"

"You... you wouldn't stop," Gergreg returned, panting. "Bloody... idiot."

Alastia mewled and, taking pity, Gergreg rose and crawled over to help her.

Gergreg folded his arms and scowled in the direction they'd come from. "Tch! Got us away, didn't I?"

"Yes, and I'm sure that's exactly what Thera meant," Gergreg muttered. "So now what do we do? We have to go back and rescue Hec–"

"Why?" the other marten cut him off. "He's been captured. We're free. No sense in all of us getting thrown in the chokey for a crime _we_ didn't commit." He eyed Gergreg, and the marten could feel himself beginning to color as he pulled Alastia to her footpaws and let her steady herself on his arm.

"Hector would do it for us."

"You sure about that? He let June get Envie killed without a tug or a tog, he did."

"I'm with Gergreg," Alastia put in. "Let those morons suffer the Fate they've writ themselves. Hmph! Would you look at the state of my dress? Ugh! Between you two and that overgrown rabbit... really."

The martens exchanged an eye roll, but neither paid the whinging female much mind.

"He got us out of that codswiping village," Gergreg pointed out. "We owe him."

"Then he got us _into_ this whole mess! If he hadn't brought on all those damned troublemakers we'd still be doing business right enough! But no, the Fantastic Mister Fox has to have a bleeding heart. All started with that otter getting the leg up. Bloody slave."

"June's a... a good lad," Gergreg protested weakly.

"When the role calls for it," his brother scoffed. "And then there was that little brat, then the rabbit, and _then_ that hedgepig. Papa always said it: 'Never work with woodies, kits, or bints, if you know what's good for you.' We're marking three out of three!"

"A thoughtful slice of wisdom, that," Alastia interjected, then paused, frowning. "Hold on a moment, who's the bint?"

Neither marten spoke. The cat's expression soured considerably at that, but at least it shut her up.

"Look, the ones who matter don't have anything to worry about," Gergreg said after a moment, his face softening as he punched Gergreg's shoulder playfully. "They'll make out all right, then go on to Salamandastron. That's where Hector said we'd be going. We'll be able to get a new cart and everything will be right as a muzzle on a badger!"

Inspiration struck, and Gergreg jabbed a claw at his brother with a triumphant grin. "What about what that bat prophet said? She said we were part of a prophecy at Redwall. We have to go back for that!"

Gergreg snorted. "Come on, we don't believe that kind of thing."

Gergreg's whiskers twitched. "_We_ don't?"

"Of course not." The other marten shook his head with a condescending smirk. "Now, we just need to–"

"Well, what if _I_ do?" Gergreg demanded.

"What?"

"What if _I_ believe it?" the blue-shirted marten held his ground, balling his paws into fists and bearing his teeth. Alastia, displaying an uncharacteristic amount of prudence, released his arm and stepped away. "Why should it always be _we_? I'm not _you_!"

Gergreg held up his open paws and shifted back. "Settle down, now. What's got your tail bottling?"

"It's always '_we'll_ do this' or '_we_ believe that' or '_we_ can't go there'," Gergreg growled. "I'm my own beast, and _I'll_ do whatever _I_ bloody well please. And... and I don't think I much like being called 'Gergreg' these days."

His brother's brows knit together. "Gergreg, you're just being ridi–"

"It's 'Greg'," Greg corrected, squaring his jaw.

"Well... but..." Gergreg floundered. "But then what am I supposed to be called?"

"Whatever you like," Greg said. "I'm not you, I haven't the slightest idea what you'd like to be called."

"Fine, then," Gergreg countered. "I want to be 'Greg', too."

"I don't think that's what he was driving at," Alastia put in. Both martens shot her glares that could have stripped the bark off a tree. She mumbled something and let her yellow eyes drop to the ground.

"_My_ name is Greg," Greg continued after a moment. "Find your own name."

"But I like _that_ name."

"You can't have it. I picked it first!"

"Says you."

"Says I–Oof!"

Gergreg tackled Greg to the ground and began wrestling with him. "I want it! I want to be 'Greg'! Give it to me!"

"Never!" Greg swore, snatching his brother's tail and yanking it until the other marten howled. They grappled with one another on the dark forest floor, accumulating clods of dirt, leaves, and Fates only knew what else in their fur and on their clothes. Eventually, though, as all of their fights did, they dissolved into fits of giggles, tickling each other to the point of suffocation.

"Fine! Fine! You win!" Greg gasped after several minutes, pushing the other away. "Let's try this. I'll be Greg, and you can be Ger."

The other frowned. "Are you insinuating I'm lesser?"

"No! I would never _insinuate_ that."

"So then, why don't I get a second 'g'?"

"Because there's only three to go around. We can't be Gerg and Greg; we don't have enough letters."

"Well I'm not settling with just Ger. Why don't I take Gerg, and you take Reg."

"Reg? Really? Are you listening to the words coming out of your mouth? Gerg and Reg are terrible. They don't even start on the same letter!"

"Well, I want Greg. _You_ can be Ger. I'm taller, anyway." He stood up to prove his point.

Greg stood too, to prove him wrong. "No you're not. I'm taller. Look! You're standing on tip-claws! Besides, I deserve the 'g'. I was born first."

"_I_ was born first. By a full minute, at least!"

"So, then, wouldn't you want the Ger, since it precedes the Greg?"

Gergreg opened his mouth to protest before the logic hit him. "Maybe."

"You're both absolutely mad," Alastia informed them.

"Heh... Not sore about getting stuck with me in that description, Greg?" Ger queried.

"Think I can manage it this time, Ger."

"Yes," the wildcat confirmed. "Stark and raving."

"Ooo... I want to be raving," Ger said.

"Wouldn't mind being stark now and again," Greg agreed.

"Come on, then," Ger grinned as he gave a roguish wink to Greg. "I suppose we'd best hop it to Redwall while it's still dark."

"_What?_" Alastia wailed. "You roll about on the ground and suddenly we're going to rescue Hector? I won't do it! I'm through with him. He never gave me the parts I wanted anyway."

"Blimey," Greg began, "now isn't that a shame, Ger?"

"Cor _and_ blimey." Ger nodded. "Why, Hector's Acting Troupe short one shrew in cat's clothing? Never did hear a more shameful thing in my life."

"Not a very interesting life, then?"

"Too interesting, I'm afraid."

"I mean it," the actress stamped her footpaw for emphasis. "I'm not going to go with you."

Ger's face darkened. "I mean it too, cat. I've known deeper puddles than you."

Greg spoke up before she could give voice to the apoplexy contracting her features. "We can't really leave her behind, Ger," he said. "She'd be dead before the week's out."

"Sounds like a personal problem."

"Ger..."

"It's either Hector at Redwall or Alastia in the forest," Ger directed, frowning.

Greg fretted for a moment, letting his ears fall back and shifting his eyes between his brother's moonlit face and the ground. Then, he cast his gaze toward the wildcat in question. A self-satisfied smirk was curling the actress' whiskers up.

"Right, then," the marten said, "let's get to Redwall."

Alastia's face fell. "What?"

"Sensible choice, my dear Greg." Ger patted his brother's shoulder, and they set off.

"D-don't think I'm going to follow you, then!" the cat called after them. "I'm just fine. I don't need you, you hideous ogres! I'm... I'm fine..."

"Do you think she'll be able to find our trail?" Greg asked, making sure to stomp extra hard.

"I hope not," Ger growled, treading lightly.


	71. junejunejune

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 70. junejunejune  
**

_by Juniper  
_

Juniper didn't know when he stopped running, nor did he know when he arrived at the hollowed out stump of an oak. All he knew was that it was a place to distract him from his thoughts, to keep his mind off the scene he had just enacted with that brilliant actor of a squirrel. Rufus had been magnificent, he told himself. Supremely sublime. The fear in his eyes—if Juniper didn't know better, he would have sworn it was real. It wasn't real, of course. It was just a game, a lark, and Rufus had disappeared off to play another character in another story. His part in Juniper's life was over. Gone on to better things, where maybe he didn't have to play the villain, and he could try his paw at a more chivalrous role. Yes, Juniper liked that.

There were sounds of clanging and banging that emanated from within the giant oaken stump, and a soft orange glow illuminated through the windows, making it seem as though a dome had settled over the rising sun. All he had to do was go inside and there it would be to greet him, ridding him of this horrid night. He knocked on the door three times, once with his paw and twice with his arm after a painful reminder that the former had been scorched to ill use. No answer came save more clanging. Figuring then it was safe to enter, Juniper opened the door and inched his way inside.

It was obvious that he had stepped into a forge—weapons hung like ornaments across the walls, and those that were not in upright display were placed in neat little arrangements on various tables. Metalwork of intricate design accompanied the blades and tools, ranging from simple lawn ornaments to beautiful door knockers. Blacksmith puzzles were scattered throughout, bins that held nails and buckles, and a huge anvil was placed by the giant fire where a squirrel was hammering away at a burning rod.

But all these were unnecessary details to the one thing that caught Juniper's eye. Displayed above the mantel, in plain view for all to see, was the legendary sword of Martin the Warrior. From the deadly blade to the ruby red pommel stone, there was no doubt in Juniper's mind that he was looking upon that majestic blade.

The otter stood in silence, complete awe overtaking him, until his reverie was interrupted by a tumultuous sound of hissing and popping. The squirrel had taken the rod and stuck it in a barrel, where it screamed as though an unspeakable terror were being performed. Steam exploded in the room, filling it with a misty glow. Juniper could not help but imagine that the barrel was filled with some sort of acidic poison and the rod, who had nothing to do with anything, was being tortured for the sheer sake of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Juniper frowned at this horrific thought. An image of Rufus flashed through his mind, and the otter had a hard time trying not to sick up from it all.

"Who are you?"

Juniper opened his eyes and looked up. He was doubled over on the floor with his head in his knees, and the squirrel was shaking his hammer in a threatening manner.

"How did you get in here?" the squirrel said, forcing Juniper to correct his observation to one where she was shaking her hammer in a threatening manner.

"The, the door," Juniper said, rising. His vision clouded in darkness, and he could almost feel the bile rise in his throat. He swallowed and concentrated, quelling his nausea.

"Yes, what about the door? Was it open? Because the only reason I can fathom somebeast waltzing into somebeast else's house uninvited is if the door was open."

"Well, I thought that maybe, since the door was unlocked—" Juniper started, realizing the lunacy of his actions as he was saying them.

"Unlocked, you say?" the squirrel interrupted, then muttered a curse. "I could have sworn I locked that thing. No matter. You're inside now. What do you want? I'm very busy. I'm in the middle of a project for some uppity ferret, and I've been pressured to finish it ever since he threatened to reduce the amount of nuts in our bargain." She paused after this. "Are you feeling okay?"

Juniper wasn't. The door was doing a poor job of helping to keep him upright, and he had slid to the floor, trying to calm his breathing. He wasn't sure why he was acting this way. He didn't seem to be in any danger, not anymore, now that she was no longer swinging her hammer.

"You're covered in blood, you know."

Maybe that was it.

The squirrel raised an eye. "I'm going to brew some tea."

By the time the tea had brewed and Juniper had been retrieved from the entryway and wrapped in a warm blanket, introductions were made and they had settled in the kitchen, where all the intimidating weaponry was out of the otter's eyesight. His eyes roved around the small den. Dishes were stacked in non-sequential order, and shells of nuts were spread all the way across the table top to pile in small little mounds on the floor. No candles were lit, as the glow from the forge on the other side of the stove gave more than enough light to see. Juniper and the squirrel sat at a small table, the otter's paws holding the blanket by his claws so that the burns did not rub against the soft, coarse fabric. He leaned in and blew on his mug, dispelling the steam for a brief moment before it settled once again to hover over the hot liquid. His tongue ventured a taste. Still too hot.

The squirrel seemed to notice his actions. "What happened to your paws?"

"I burned them," Juniper replied, more deadpan that he would have liked.

"Tcha, I can see that. How did you burn them?"

"Oh," June said sheepishly. He thought for a minute, considering the idea of an elaborate story that would make her think of him as a hero, but his heart was not in it. He sighed. "Slight mishap with a fire stick."

"Let me see," she said, then wrenched one paw away from him. He tried to regain control, but she was tenacious in her grip.

"Stoppit," she growled, glaring at him. "Let me see. I know how to deal with burns, and yours don't look very good."

Juniper objected, passively, which the squirrel found easy to ignore.

"How long have you had these burns?"

Juniper had to think before answering. "A few days ago?" he guessed. He wasn't sure.

"Well, you did a poor job of taking care of them. I don't know what you did, but I've never seen burns like this before." She rose and went to retrieve a small water basin and cloth. Wrapped inside the cloth was a bar of soap. "Give me your paw," she demanded.

Juniper refused, knowing full well what she threatened to do. That was not enough to deter her, though, and before Juniper knew it, she had grabbed his wrist and dunked it in the basin, her free paw scrubbing with the soap. If the otter's paw had burned before, now it was on fire. It was as though the squirrel had stuck his paw in the embers of her forge, or worse, he was still holding that burning fire stick. The otter screamed and tore his paw from her grasp, falling backwards and crawling as far away as the wall permitted. He cradled his paw, whimpering as he nursed it against his body. In the split second she had taken to wash the injured extremity, she had managed to pull away some of the blood and fur leaving swollen and pussy flesh behind. Juniper was aghast at the grisly image; who knew what else was under there, and Juniper, for one, did not want to find out.

"You see?" the squirrel said, grinning. She looked pleased with herself, which gave Juniper something else to whimper at. "Now, do you want me to wash that paw and take care of it, or do you want to lose it? Because if you don't take some sort of action, you will lose it, and the other one, too."

Juniper wiped the tears from his eyes. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. Whenever a character in a story suffered, it was always deserved. It was only in the most tragic of tales when characters didn't deserve their punishment. Juniper did not deserve this treatment, and to think that his life had turned tragic was a thought that filled him with sorrow.

He had played tortured characters before, but the pain was always distant, fictional, and most of all, imaginary. It never really hurt, and it never hurt like this. If he could throw this life away for another, he would.

"Oh, quit being such a Dibbun!" the squirrel scoffed. "It's just a little soap and water!"

"Easy for you to say," Juniper tried to retort. "It doesn't hurt you."

"No, but it'll hurt a lot more if you don't face it." She reached down and dropped her hammer on the table. It had an oversized, square iron block for a head, and a thick piece of wood served as its handle. Juniper wanted nothing to do with it. "I'll give you two options," she said. "I can take this little iron block on this end here and give you a nice long rest, or you can chew on this wooden end here instead. Which do you prefer?"

Juniper stammered. He didn't agree with either option, but the way she picked it up and dropped it on the table, and the way the basin trembled and the water danced told him which end he'd rather receive.

He was sure it was only the handle's thickness that didn't have him snapping it in two.

He wasn't quite so sure about the state of his jaw.

"What are you doing now?" he moaned. After the ordeal of having his paws washed, and viewing the nauseating horrors hidden by fur and blood, it was all the otter could do to keep awake from sheer exhaustion as his head rested in a puddle of drool on the table. And the squirrel was still moving about. Hadn't she done enough to him?

Apparently not, as she presented a bandage in front of his face and growled, "This is special cloth, do you hear me? I don't know why I'm giving it to you. Maybe because you've provided a fantastic disruption to that stupid sword I'm supposed to be making for that idiot ferret. Also because you've given me a good outlet to vent my frustrations in working for a vermin." The last sentence sounded quite chipper.

Juniper knew it.

"At least he isn't a stoat," she grumbled. "Can't stand stoats. I hate them. Never again, never, never, never…" She continued chittering to herself as she began wrapping his paws in fabric, mentioning a certain type of tree more than a few times.

"What makes it so special?" Juniper asked. It didn't hurt like he had expected it to. Well, it did, but it wasn't accompanied with a burning sensation. This felt cool, even soothing.

"Part of this has been soaked in aloe vera. Don't ask me what it is. I didn't know, either. Apparently it's some sort of plant. I was an idiot accepting it as trade, but it turned out to be one of the best deals I ever made."

"Aloe vera?" Juniper asked. The peculiarity of the cloth gave him the energy to lift his head from the table, though he had to peel himself off, first. "Where does it come from?"

"Search me. One of those things you get from the Governor and Company of Merchants of Mossflower Trading into the East Continent, like those tomatoes you've been seeing. I hear that's where chocolate comes from, too."

Juniper nodded, if not understanding, as the squirrel continued to wrap his paws in bandages.

"So these burns came from fire sticks, eh?"

The otter tensed. "Aye," he said.

"You didn't happen to be in Redwall on the night of Dittany's death, did you?"

Juniper's mind searched, pulling every interrogation scene that came to mind, something he could draw inspiration from and get him out of this confrontation he knew would not end well. He knew what had happened on the night of Dittany's death.

The otter took too long. "Of course you were!" she answered for him.

It was not too late. He could still save it. Furiously his mind tried to reach, but each scene became like smoke in his paws. He couldn't even remember what plays they were from.

"Are you sure it was me?" he managed to ask.

"The actor? The only woodlander in that band of vermin? I recognize your hat."

"I believe you're mistaken."

"Mm, I don't think so. Your hat is yellow, just like his."

"My hat is yellow and red, or brown now, I guess," Juniper tried to counter.

"Speaking of which, you know you're still covered in blood, right? Whose is it?"

"Mine," Juniper said a little too quickly. It took an effort to contain the distressed sigh that screamed to escape. He was doing it all wrong. His timing was off, his voice poorly pitched, and his responses were shoddy, at best. The squirrel continued to wrap his paws, although in Juniper's eyes, she now seemed to have a more pretentious air about the process.

"I'm sure. So let me ask you, because I don't remember seeing you when that stray fire stick hit the bell tower."

Juniper winced as the squirrelsmith tugged on the bandage. "What do you mean?"

"You were just noticeably absent, is all. I don't recall you being there at all."

"I was backstage," he defended, weakly.

"Were you? Because I also remember you wandering off to the Abbey after your big exit."

"I was hungry," he said, gathering strength.

He winced at another tug. "So, what happened? After you left, that is."

The otter frowned. "I don't know. I ran into a few beasts, ate, and then I had to rush back to the stage."

"Oh? Why was that?"

"For my reentrance."

"I don't remember that."

"Well, we didn't get that far. It was supposed to be during the third fire stick."

"So you ran into a few beasts? Who were they?"

"I don't remember," he said, a slight tinge of annoyance coating his voice.

"You don't remember? Nothing at all? Was one of those beasts you ran into a squirrel, by any chance?"

Juniper thought, but his head was not going to allow it. "There might have been a squirrel. I don't know! What does it matter?"

The squirrel tugged at the bandage, which would have been fine, but she had just started on his other paw. "Somebeast died, actor. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

A thought of Rufus came to mind, but the otter forced it back before it could fully manifest. "Of course it does! But what are you implying? That I had a paw in Dittany's death?"

"How does a woodlander like you end up with a group of traveling vermin?"

Juniper glowered at that.

"It just seems odd you would disappear off to the Abbey, the bell tower and the gatehouse explode, and Dittany is found dead. Where did your burns come from? A fire stick? Funny, because the bell tower and the gatehouse were hit with fire sticks. It's just peculiar, is all. Don't you think it's peculiar?"

If it were not for the fur on his skin, Juniper would have made a ghost appear vibrant. He knew it. Somehow, he knew it. He never should have told her where his burns had come from. Now she thought he was the one that had set off the explosions. It was ridiculous. How could she reach that conclusion, and how could she question him like that, when he had done such a poor job of it himself? It seemed like interrogation came so easy to everyone but himself. It was so unfair! He was the brilliant investigator! He was supposed to be the one solving the crime and cracking the case! And she was wrong; he hadn't set off the fire stick. He was there in the Abbey when the belltower fell, and he was there on the lawn when the gatehouse blew. He wasn't anywhere near those things.

But how could he prove his innocence? She already had a compelling case against him, and he had to admit, the evidence was strong and not in his favor. The otter floundered. A real brilliant investigator would have talked his way out of it before it had a chance to go down that path, but Juniper wasn't good enough. In the end, he was only pretending.

"I didn't kill her," he said softly.

"I'm sure _you_ didn't."

The otter shook his head. "What about you? I saw the Sword of Martin hanging bright and center when I came in. Where did you get it? Seems pretty brazen to present it in your forge like a trophy."

"Aye, it would be pretty naïve to steal the Sword of Martin and hang it up for all to see," the squirrel sneered. "If that was the Sword of Martin. It's a replica, but I appreciate your presumption."

Juniper's heart fell. "It's not the sword?"

"No," she said. "It would have been, but that wasn't good enough for Dittany. 'Oh, yes, about that," she said, her voice adopting a high pitched whine. " 'See, the badger just opened up and we thought, well, you know. He's a badger!' " Then she started muttering things. Juniper wasn't sure, but he thought she was just repeating her favorite tree over and over again.

"So, why are you covered in blood?"

The sudden shift in direction threw the otter off kilter, but at least it was a line of questioning that couldn't turn sour. "I was kitnapped."

"Kitnapped? You?" the squirrel scoffed. "Aren't you a little too old to be kitnapped?"

Juniper shrugged. "I was in the wrong place at the wrong time, I guess. They took Silver, and they had other kits bound, as well. They were marching us to Veil Village, though I never found out why."

"And the blood?"

"I was trying to escape, and…" Juniper did not want to finish.

Completed with her task of binding his paws, the squirrel resumed her seat at the table and took a long draught of her tea. Juniper followed her cue, testing his bound paws on the mug before he felt it safe enough to lift. He blew on the tea because it was customary to do so, then shuddered as the cold liquid hit his muzzle. That didn't stop him from drinking it.

"I wonder. Did you escape from being kitnapped or were you just fed up with it all?"

Juniper hesitated in his draught. "What do you mean?"

"Well, if you were involved in Dittany's death, then I'm assuming you're involved with the kitnappings as well. I thought it was just a rumour. Dittany didn't take it too seriously, either." A smirk climbed onto the squirrel's face. "That, or she just didn't care."

The otter furrowed his brow. "Didn't care?"

"Wouldn't put it past her. Hmph! Dittany was always like that; always had to have her way. Didn't matter how many heads she had to trod on, or paws she had to stamp to get it." The squirrel scowled. "The Abbey knows how she was made Abbess."

"What did she have to do with the kitnappings?"

"We used to be friends, you know," the squirrel continued, seeming not to hear him. "Ran with her for eight seasons! One would think she'd have a bit more compassion for old acquaintances. Tcha! Aya was right about her."

"I don't understand," he said. What was she saying about the kitnappings? That Dittany had a paw in it? The otter shook his head. The plot was getting deeper and deeper, and Juniper could barely keep his head above the water.

"Listen," the squirrel said, pointing a claw at him. "Do you plan on staying here? Because that's a really bad idea."

"Why's it a bad idea?" He frowned.

"Psh! I can't have you laying about. There's only one mat, and I'm not sharing it with the likes of you. Oh! You're a fugitive, too. So, there—I won't be harbouring fugitives."

"But—"

"Glad you agree. Now get out of here. You've wasted enough of my time as it is."

Juniper took the time to finish his tea. Despite the temperature, it still managed to be delicious and soothing, even if the dregs still managed to make him shudder. A frown creased the otter's face. When was the last time he had eaten?

"Out!" the squirrel barked, and shooed Juniper to the door. "If you run into Greenfang, tell him I'm still here if he ever cares to visit!" she shouted, then slammed the door behind her.

The otter stood with his back against the door, trying to figure out what exactly had happened in that stump. He knew nothing more than before, except that Dittany might now have something to do with the kitnapping arc that was beginning to take precedence in his life. Which would have been fine, except that he had no idea what any of it meant. Juniper stamped his paws and whined the way a Dibbun would do if told that the prize at the end were nothing more than a job well done. He understood he was trying to solve a mystery, but couldn't it just stick to the Abbess's death? Why did it have to involve kitnappings as well? Juniper hated it. He was tired, he was cranky, he was irritable, and all he wanted was to fill his belly and lie down for a day-long nap. It seemed like three days since he had achieved either of those, and he couldn't help but wonder if he would ever get the chance again. There was a good chance he might die, instead. He despised this new role of his. He couldn't solve a mystery; who was he kidding? If he could take that all away and trade it for another life of acting with Hector and Thera and everybeast else, he would. Life was simpler then. Nobeast asked him to take command, just follow their lead, and they all liked him for it. He was great at that. Now, he could barely go a few hours without another life changing revelation hitting him. But … it was all in the name of the game, wasn't it? Juniper had to survive, and to survive he had to adapt. Anything else was death.

Wrapping his vest around himself now that the cold was finally beginning to sink in, he contemplated knocking on the smith's door again to get directions to Veil Village, but her hammer had started up, and Juniper didn't have the spirit to disturb her. It wouldn't have mattered anyway. If the otter had learned anything tonight, it was that everything happened for a reason. If he and Daskin had never been captured, he never would have learned about the kitnappings. If Cecil hadn't bungled his part, then Rufus would never have come after him. If Rufus hadn't left the story, he never would have met the squirrelsmith. And if he had never met the squirrelsmith, then his paws would never have been tended to, nor would he have known Dittany might have a part in this whole thing. It was a little disjointed, but he assured himself it made sense. The point was, it didn't matter if he knew where he was going or not. The story would take him wherever it wanted him to be; he just had to trust its guidance.

Sleep came first, however. Frowning at the incessant noise coming from the squirrel's forge, he picked a direction and wandered, figuring that one was as good as any. The hammer's clanging faded, but that did not make the forest silent. Off in the distance, Juniper could hear the faint voices of a heated argument. It was curiosity more than anything else that had him changing direction, heading towards the quarrel. How long had the moon hung in the sky? Did nobeast sleep on this side of the woodlands?

He was unprepared for the scene that laid before him when he came across it. Weapons were drawn, bodies were strewn about, and beasts were being manacled. Despite their preoccupation, it did not take long before everybeast had noticed him.

"It's that actor! Get him!"

Juniper stamped his foot paws and shouted, "Wickin' chivvy zipperfriskin' rikkers!"

The creatures cast him horrific looks—many of them gasped—and the shackled weasel covered his kit's ears. It was only the fat squirrel that shot him a grin, but Juniper didn't care. The way he was feeling, he wouldn't exchange that phrase for anything else.


	72. The Small Print

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 71. The Small Print  
**

_by Dominic  
_

"Can you loosen them? Just a little? I'm getting leprosy!"

"You can't get leprosy from manacles, idiot," somebeast said with a snort.

"Tchk!" Dominic hissed. "I meant gangrene!"

His nose was still dripping. Just when he'd got it to stop, too. How unfair.

Crossing his eyes, Dominic surveyed the damage done by Shandi's paw. There would be bruising. But none of his teeth were chipped, and his lips had been smudged aside rather than split. He was probably going to get ingrown whiskers. Stupid squirrel.

And that was just his _nose_.

He was bruised all over, one eye blackened considerably. He'd put up a struggle-not while being cuffed, but to convince them to let him carry Ella. He'd never really liked brawling. He found he liked it even less without use of his paws. There was still fur between his teeth. He might've eaten an ear. He couldn't tell anymore. Nobeast seemed to be missing one, but he was sure he'd crunched into something and it hadn't been a leaf.

There was an ominous glow on the horizon to the east. Sunrises weren't supposed to be ominous. They were supposed to bring peace and hope. Dominic supposed that was for beasts who had something to run from in the night, beasts who could look forward to morning bringing relief. Those beasts probably weren't being brought to Redwall to be executed, though. It was in his best interests this night lasted forever.

Belette was marching along at the front of the group. Dominic noticed she wasn't cuffed. Rod, too, had his paws free. What was that about? Even the random otter that had run into them had his paws cuffed. The only other ones to go without any were Hannah and Ella, and that was probably only because their wrists were too tiny.

Everyone else... had died. The shrew, the mouse, and Cones. Dominic squinched his eyes, trying to forget. He hadn't even counted how many of the Redwallers Shandi and the others had taken down. A few, at least.

"Belette?" he called. "Belette, do you have any idea what's going on?"

"Mmmffmm," Shandi said. Dominic nodded. That made sense.

"I was asking Belette, but that's good to know."

"Shut it, weasel, or you'll get my other pawsock," a stocky male squirrel said.

"I'd rather have one of Ella's," Dominic said.

"That could be arranged," Rod growled. The fox dropped back to walk beside him. He thrust his muzzle uncomfortably close to Dominic's ear. "Really, shut up. We'll explain later. Belette has a plan."

"Could I know about it?" Dominic whispered back.

"No."

"My paws wanna pawsocks," Ella decided, kicking lazily in Dominic's arms. "On my paws."

"It _is_ cold," Dominic mused. "Can I have a pair? For Ella?"

Grumbling, Rod fished in the rucksack he was still carrying. Dominic's personal rucksack was still on his back. Nobeast wanted to carry anything extra, and it had been decided with his paws bound, it would be of no use to him, perhaps even slow him down were he to try running.

"Here," the fox said, tossing the pair of socks onto Ella's stomach. She grabbed them and began biting. "Just do what the Redwallers tell you, Dom. It'll all be over soon enough."

Dominic deflated. _Wibblewibblewibble._ "Soon enough" wasn't soon enough for him. He was positive that hours dragged on. The only thing to do was walk, keep Ella safe, and listen to the strange otter's bantering.

"Really, I think you've got it all wrong. I'm not from Hector's Acting Troupe!"

"Stow it. I saw the play, and I'd recognize that hat anywhere."

"Oh yes? Do you remember what color it was?"

"Yellow!"

"Or brown, I guess, now that the blood's dried. I mean, doesn't matter!"

"You know, what ticks me off most about that night is I never got to see the end of that play."

"I could do it for you," Juniper offered. "You'll have to let me out of these chains, though, if you want the full show. I can play all the parts! I'll even do the squeaky voice, too!"

He turned around and scrunched up his nose at Dominic. His voice veered into a high-pitched whine. "'ALLO GUVNAH, WOT'S TH' NEWS THEN?"

Dominic wished he had an egg. A good egg could distract him from anything.

"Soon enough" finally came. Redwall City loomed into view. It wasn't the sunrise Dominic had been seeing, but the glow of lights from windows. Street lamps played their part, their enclosed flames twiddling calmly, casting hellish glows on the spires of the half-ruined abbey in the center of it all. Ella oohed at it. Dominic's footpaws tried to work backwards. An otter pushed him from behind, snarling threats in his ear.

To Dominic's relief, they were not taken to the Abbey.

To Dominic's horror, they were taken to the city prison.

Long Patrol hares stood around by the gate. They came to attention as the party approached. Up ahead, there was whispering. Dominic strained to hear, but it was cut out by an agonized squealing and clanking of chains.

"Hellgates," he moaned.

"Not far from it," Shandi said. Somebeast had finally taken the pawsock out of her mouth. Blast.

"Just think of it like _Swartt's Atonement_," Juniper said, eerily cheerily.

"Never seen it..."

"It's a poem, not a play. Don't be thick."

They were led through one at a time, Juniper first. They put a bag over the otter's head. His only complaint was that it would have been more comedic simply pulling his hat over his eyes. Dominic was personally quite happy to see the wretched thing out of sight. Something about that shade of brown really rankled his fur.

Shandi was next. She struggled as the bag went over her ears, nearly biting the hare doing the deed. Another squirrel began chittering in glee. Dominic recognized her as the one who had tackled and cuffed Shandi earlier. It was hard to tell which one was more annoying.

Then they came at him. With Ella in his arms, there was nothing he could do. He clapped his paws over her ears, making sure no bag was being put over her head as well. It was hot and it stank inside. Dominic hoped it was just his breath. The weave was thick, and he couldn't see anything beyond the faint glow of lamps.

Nothing was put on Ella's head. He relaxed-mentally. Physically, he was a messed-up bundle of nerves, twitching at every pebble rolling under his footpaws. Nobeast said a word, although at one intersection, Ella said "frumpy". For what reason, Dominic never did find out. The rest of prisoners marched in doomed silence, the guards leading the way The gravel gave way to stone floor. That was the only cue he could take from the change of surroundings. Stone, stone, stone. Down stairs that curved too steeply inward, the steps cold and rough. More stone, and then... itchy, poking, but soft. Straw.

"Check for weapons. Careful with the squirrel, she's killed one of ours. Get that rucksack off him, too."

Paws patted at his clothes. More paws grabbed his arms. More paws still dragged Ella out of his arms. Dominic writhed and bellowed, kicking out at them, but was restrained by a blow to the back of the neck and a gangly footpaw kicking him down. It pressed against his head, holding him still as they yanked his rucksack off.

"What about the kit?"

"Give her back!"

"Hmmm... don't know how long this trial doohicky's going to take. Ehhhh, orphanage."

Dominic's wailing reached its peak levels, and he twisted out from under the hare's footpaw and bit its ankle, even through the bag.

"Yowch! Lousy blighter!"

"Bloody well give him the kit!" Shandi said. "He'll never shut up!"

"I wan' poppy!"

"Bracket! Rabblerabblerabble!" Juniper shouted, simply adding more noise to the mess.

"Give me my daughter, you damned rabbit! I'll gnaw your wicking throats out!"

"T'ellgates with it," somebeast shouted. "Tain't worth it! Let 'im keep the brat. What's the 'arm?"

Dominic's breath poofed out of his lungs as something heavy was dropped on his chest. Ella's arms wrapped around his neck. He brought his arms up to protect her, and growled as his paws were left flapping on either side of the embrace. Not fair!

All of a sudden, the bag was whisked off his head. It chafed his ears.

"Ow!"

A metal door slammed. A bolt squeaked and rattled, settling with a clang.

Dominic sat up, sending Ella tumbling down into his lap.

He, Juniper and Shandi were in a jail cell. Three walls were stone and mortar, but the fourth was a line of iron bars that grew from the floor into the ceiling, just wide enough to stick an arm through. Every few feet there was a crossbeam, presumably to prevent skeletons from slipping through. A wooden bench was along every wall. In one corner there was a bucket, and beside it, a hole in the floor no bigger than a fist. Dominic wanted to throw up, but he knew he'd have to use it to do so. That was a major deal-breaker.

Juniper and Shandi were already seated. And, Dominic noticed, not cuffed.

"You forgot me!" he shouted, twisting to face the guard beyond the bars. "Get these off me!"

"Hah!" was the only reply he got.

For the first time in decent lighting, Dominic got a good look at the group that had brought them in. There was the stocky squirrel, an otter with blood dribbling down the side of his head, and a grey squirrel that looked like a younger Shandi, if Shandi had never discovered the joys of plum pudding and the art of how to hide tubs of it under her bed for a midnight snack. The prison guards who had brought them in were a hare and a hedgehog.

"Have a good rest, you slob," the female squirrel said, looking at Shandi. She snickered. "Good luck finding the pea under _that!_ I bet somebeast had the runs on it."

Dominic whimpered. Shandi stared straight ahead, mouth clamped shut, but shaking visibly.

"'Nuff o' that, princess," the hedgehog said. Sticking her tongue out one last time, the squirrel left. The others trailed along behind her.

"Princess?" Dominic said.

"Shut up, Dominic."

"Princess of what? Why would a princess be chasing us? Shandi?"

"I said, _shut up_!"

"I just don't-it doesn't make sense! Who sends out a _princess_ to be a bounty hunter?"

"My bloody parents, that's who!"

The squirrel stood up, fists quivering. She sat down again and sighed.

"Obviously my mum is Lady Willa, ye scrawny little git. Does everybeast always have to spell everything out for ye?" Dominic shrugged. "So yes, technically I am a...a...princess." Shandi screwed her face up in disgust, as if the word had left a foul taste in her mouth. "That charming creature was my sister, Linnet. So really, doesn't matter if they kill me, because she's mummy and daddy's _favourite_ anyway. Stupid, lousy, tail-licking..."

"Dave-rubbing…" Juniper added, patting his maw to hide a yawn.

Dominic stared, his mind racing to keep up with the torrent. Then he scoffed.

Shandi, a princess? Sure she was. And he was a prince who'd traded places with a tavern janitor, and, and, and probably had to kiss a frog or something to turn back into proper royalty. Because that sort of thing was always happening, princes wandering off to get involved in wretched adventures where they were convicted of murder. Obviously.

Dominic found he was having trouble deciding whether or not he hoped the whole frog thing was a metaphor. The pros and cons of kissing an amphibian over Shandi were... uncomfortably even.

He'd probably go with the frog. Its mouth would be cleaner.

How many swears did a squirrel princess _know_? And how many was Ella going to repeat later?

"Can you stop that?" he moaned. "I've got a headache. It's not helping."

Shandi began directing her cursing at him, causing his cheeks to flush red. Many of the things she was accusing him of were truer than he would have liked to admit.

"Now excuse me, _princess_, I never-oh, wait... um."

Shandi raised her brow. She sighed again.

"It's no fun when it's fact."

Juniper began to snore. They glanced sharply at the otter. He was curled up on his bench, his hat very much a nightcap. He was sucking his paw. Or trying to, around the bandages.

"We should sleep," Dominic suggested, more to temper the desire to kick Shandi in the head than because he was really tired. Although he was that, too. He hauled himself up onto the last available bench. Closest to the bucket, he noticed. Ewh.

He stared at his paws. He nibbled a claw or two, testing their durability. No signs yet. He glanced sharply up at Juniper. Airborne, or contact? Body-fluids, or fur and flesh? Not that it mattered. When his tail started dropping off, he'd know for sure. Or did the nose go first? It seemed it did. Good riddance! He was tired of it hurting.

"Martintime?" Ella cooed. She climbed up beside him and lay down, resting her head on his lap, immediately distracting him. He pet her head softly.

Martentime? Dominic tried to think of the last time Ella had interacted with a pine marten. There had been one on the Sentinel council... But the only time before then was when Walkin had hosted a dart-throwing competition, and the winner had shook Ella's little paw and had called her "Champ" and flashed that charming smile of his that almost made Dominic's knees feel wobbly, for reasons he couldn't explain but knew precisely. And then the two performers at the abbey... Not as handsome, those two.

"Maybe we'll see one later," Dominic said. Ella yawned. Such a little trooper! Funny, how content kits could make themselves in any given situation. She'd been so well-behaved, considering. Sooner or later, circumstance was going to catch up to her, though. She was without her pot.

The weight of the situation caved in on him. His ears perked forward, his eyes bugging out.

"Actually, there's something I need to tell-" Shandi began.

"Oh, shut _up_, you fat biddy! Nobeast wants to hear your stupid voice anymore! Especially not me! If you and those stupid Sentinel goons hadn't gone after me and Belette, none of us would be here! This is all _your_ fault!"

"Fabiddy!" Ella scowled. Her little fists jabbed at the air in the general direction of Shandi's nose, then quickly clasped under her head again for a pillow.

"Forget it," Shandi said. "Ye probably wouldn't understand anyway, and I'm not in the mood to spell it out so even yer spawn could understand..."

"Whatever," Dominic said, grunting. He patted Ella's back. She belched happily.

The guard tapped on the bars.

"Visitor t' see ye, weasel."

Dominic zheeped. All traces of fatigue fell away like a cloak as he stood. "Belette!"

It wasn't Belette. It was the otter from the hunting party again. His blood had been wiped off, but now there was a bandage on his head. Dominic's foul mood exploded back into his heart just as quickly as it left. He did his best to fold his arms and sit back on his bench, waiting for the aquatic mustelid to do whatever it was he came to do..

"Ye bit my ear off!"

"Just the one?" Dominic said. It looked like both had been. He craned his head around to get a better look at the otter's head. He saw one ear, just barely. The thing was so tiny it was trivial anyway.

"Are you sure you didn't just spill jam in it? That would make it feel like it's not working."

"Ye _bit_ my _ear_ off!"

"On the bright side, nobeast will be able to tell."

The otter turned sharply and grabbed the guard hare's arm. There was frantic whispering, then the hare nodded. He opened the cell door. The otter stepped in.

"Just once," the hedgehog warned.

"Ye bit my ear off... _And_... ye killed my brother," the otter said. His eyes locked on Dominic's. The weasel leapt from the bench and backed up against the far wall, his footpaw almost landing in the bucket.

"I never killed anybeast!"

"Francine saw ye," the otter went on, slowly advancing toward him. "So did others. Weasel in a black tunic, screamin' about his kit... Stabbed Vincent... Ye bloody murderer! I bet ye killed Dittany, too!"

Dominic glanced imploringly at the hedgehog, who was standing this his back to the bars, staring down the hallway.

Dominic cringed, almost melting into the mortar wall. He was on his own, but he couldn't fight. Not with his paws still manacled. Not when Ella was safe. The fight wasn't there in him. He hadn't killed anybeast! He didn't deserve this!

"Shandi! Shandi, help me!"

The squirrel looked away.

The otter didn't hit once. He hit twice, once in the stomach, once on the back of the head, on the spot softened from the earlier struggles. The weasel was left wheezing, his head throbbing thoroughly. Tears tore at his eyes from the pain. The salt in them stung, adding seasoning to his suffering.

As he straightened himself, he caught sight of Ella throwing herself at the otter's tail. She bit in hard, hanging on with grim determination as he sauntered smugly out of the cell.

"Ella..." Dominic moaned. "Ella, let go..."

"Hmm?" The otter looked over his shoulder. He laughed. The mocking tone drove needles into Dominic's cheeks. "What've we got here? A little leach, eh!"

He picked Ella up by the scruff of her neck. The weasel kit spun gently, an undecided weather vane of fury. All four paws flailed at the otter's distant face. He bent down, dropped her the rest of the way to the floor. She landed on her diaper, legs spread out as if to play patty-scone. Then he nudged her with his footpaw, scooting her back into the cell. She glided inside in a daze, her tail streaming along the floor behind her. She blinked around, then tugged her the back of her dress over her head in frustration.

The door clanked shut once again.

Juniper and Shandi were silent. Embarrassment flooded the cell as Dominic's sobbing grew louder. He curled up in the bucket corner, arm over his aching head. Ella tugged her dress back down and toddled over. She patted his tight-shut eyes with her paws. Her pads were soft as fresh cotton tissues.

"No cry, no cry, poppy. Poppy don't cry." She leaned over and bumped her nose against his forehead. "Booboo's gone now."

"Pathetic," the otter spat. Dominic flinched as the glob landed on the straw in the middle of the floor.

"That's what ye get for calling me a fat biddy," Shandi said, when they'd left again. Juniper resumed his snoring.

Dominic crawled under the bench and held Ella as he cried himself to sleep.

-

"Dom... Dominic..."

His footpaw twitched.

"Dominic... it's me..."

He licked the floor, grunting a little. Ella had retired to the bench above, and one of her arms was trailing down, brushing his cheek every time he stretched his neck out.

"Dominic?"

"Mmm... add more cheese..."

"Dominic!"

"An' some bread, too..."

A pebble bounced off his ear, startling him awake.

"'m sorry, din' know yer wife's a wife!" he blurted.

Belette stared at him from beyond the bars. Dominic stared back, blinking sleep out of his eyes. He could only make out the outline of her figure, wavering from the torchlight behind her.

"Faye?"

"No... it's me. Belette. Dominic, come here, I don't want to wake the others."

He stood and staggered over. Her paws snaked through the bars, grabbing his elbows, drawing him nearer.

"B'lette?"

"Lean closer." He did so. Her lips plastered themselves all over his face in tiny little pecks, before latching onto his mouth. She paused just once. "I'm so sorry, Dom... I'm so sorry..."

Then she kissed him harder, longer. He kissed her back, vaguely. It hurt, but he didn't care. He wasn't sure what was happening. He was dreaming still, only the buffet had turned into Shandi-naturally-and the fancy palace had degraded horribly in the space of a few seconds. Juniper's role was the same, though. Well, minus the scantily-clad angel ferrets dangling grapes over his head. The otter snored happily away on his bench.

Belette pulled back, paws clutching his cheeks. She turned his head left and right, frowning sadly.

"Fates, Dom, what happened to you? What have they done?"

"I got hit," he mumbled. He counted. "A lot."

"You've got blood all over your face. I think I cleaned up most of it." She licked her lips. "I need to tell you something..."

"Where's Hannah?"

"Rod's taking care of her... they're waiting for me... Dom. Dom, I have to go."

"Oh."

"I can't... I can't get you out."

"Oh."

"Dom, I turned you in."

She blinked. Dominic blinked back.

"Oh."

He slid down to the floor and sat.

"Why?"

"I... I needed the money. To get out of Rillrock. To live somewhere else. You need money in this world, Dom. And I had nothing. Now I have enough."

He was crying again. Fates. Why? Why Belette? Why _Belette_? Why not anybeast else? Why couldn't it have been Lily again? He could at least expect that from her.

A bloody sap, that's what he was. A wet shag carpet. A pawkerchief, to wipe up the stains and throw away, or worse, wring it through the wash and re-use until it was worn through and covered in a decade's worth of vomit and snot. He fished Belette's pawkerchief out of his pocket and wiped her scent off his muzzle. He tossed it into the hallway.

"Why would you come here to tell me that?"

"I'm sorry... I didn't know what else to do."

His tear-stained eyes blinked imploringly up at her. She was crying, too.

"Did-did you ever really love me?"

"I... No. But I liked you. _Like_. I like you a lot. I still do."

Belette knelt down to hold his paws again. He jerked them out of reach.

"Please understand, I did this for Hannah. This money, Dominic-it will help her. We'll keep the old ways alive through our children. My husband was a fool to think we could live any other way. With woodlanders! Tchk." She glanced at Shandi sprawled out on the bench. "I'd rather live at war than pretend day in, day out, to not want to stab them in the eyes."

To Dominic's disappointment, this didn't seem unreasonable to him. Despite his anger at her, he couldn't help but wonder.

"Where will you go? Veil's the only place left without woodlanders, and the Sentinels... They'll be after you."

"South. Somewhere in the south. Cones knew places, he told me about a few... Dom? Look for me when you get out. I'll leave traces. I'll wait." She winked through her own tears. "Anyways, didn't I tell you you were a little too young right now?"

Dominic shuffled himself around so that his back was to her. He said nothing. It was a good plan. He would have done the same. Except not. Maybe Shandi. He'd sell Shandi out, sure.

"I could bring Ella with me..."

"Go," he said. "Just go, Belette."

The prison was silent for a few minutes, save for snoring and Ella's dozy burbles.

"I made sure to leave your things with the guards. They'll keep them for you until you get out. I've talked to them about your problems, too. If you need anything from your medicine box, they should be able to bring it to you. Or anything Ella needs..."

What was she waiting for? A 'thank you'?

He shut his eyes. All he could see was the image of Belette sprawled out in the hallway, the back of her head gaping open, blood gurgling out like a meadow spring. He could feel the weight of the hammer in his paws. It wasn't heavy at all. He could swing it forever. And in his imagination, he did. Belette's skull splintered, shards skittering across the floor...

Dominic chuckled-a whimper that didn't have the heart to be disgusted at the idea.

"Goodbye, Dominic."

Not like this...

"Wait."

He stood up, grabbed two of the bars, and pressed his nose between them.

"Take care of Hannah," he said. "For Faye."

Belette nodded. "For Faye."

"If you see her..."

Belette leaned forward, kissing him on the nose.

"Ow."

"I'll tell her where you are."

Dominic watched her go. He thought it would be really sweet if he could think of a good analogy for the way she vanished. Hopefully never to return in his life.

He hated himself for knowing he would miss her. She'd almost been the one.

"Rikkin' zipperfriskin' chivvy wickers-Fates _damn it all_!"

Dominic sat down and sighed, staring at the dirt layering the floor of the cell.

Ella's pawprints were so small.


	73. Yet Each Man Kills the Thing He Loves

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 72. Yet Each Man Kills the Thing He Loves  
**

_by Fjord  
_

Seeing as the troupe's main fighting force had been killed, incapacitated, or fled, Fjord chose the most sensible course of action available. He grabbed a discarded flagon from one of the tables and chucked it at the trio of guards – an otter, squirrel, and hare – while they were momentarily distracted by the Gergregs and Alastia's exit.

"No ye don't!" the otter snarled, ducking under the soaring stein.

Fjord ran for the front windows and would have made it if not for the scone that struck him squarely betwixt the ears some two seconds later. He tripped and immediately felt the warm embrace of a full-grown otter intent on doing him no small amount of harm. They crashed to the ground, Fjord thrashing to make a hooked pike proud.

"Dash it all, Ms. Aya! I know I said I liked your scones, but this is the bally limit! How could you?" He elbowed his captor in the nose. "This wasn't part of the deal, wot!"

"Grab the others, mates!" the otter instructed. "They're with – Urk! Quit that, hare, or I'll have that bob ye call a tail off."

Fjord went as limp as a broken leg.

"Get off of me," Aya warned as the otter pulled Fjord up and secured the dancer's paws behind his back. "I'm a registered pursuer from Redwall."

"She is telling the truth," Cecil put in.

The otter spun the fire dancer around in time to see the squirrelmaid punch the hare reaching for her. The third guard had secured Cecil's paws and was bending over Hector's prone form. Two of the kits crowded about the bard's knees while the third lay peacefully on a nearby table.

_He would've made the best husband... and father,_ Fjord thought, a lump rising in his throat and his eyes burning for some extraordinary reason. It was all fine and dandy to mark the 'could have been's with a melancholy sigh... quite another for a chap to well up over them like some distressed damsel with a case of love unrequited. It was that familiar feeling – the one where ice chose to invade his gastric regions – that he'd had ever since seeing Cecil by the riverside. Poor old Ceci–

"Stand down, you nutty blighter!" the hare guard growled, blocking another punch that Aya aimed at his head.

"Oi!" the squirrel guard protested, tugging Thera over to Cecil. The vixen knelt at Hector's side, wincing as she adjusted to her broken wrist coupled with the restraints. "That's speciesist, Wibbly! You heard him, didn't you, Twill?"

"Wibbly and Twill?" Fjord couldn't help scoffing. "Feel like I'm being arrested by a bally musical comedy act. The fox on the ground there's a director, you know? Could make you rich, w-Ouch!"

Twill – ostensibly the otter's name by his rather forthright reaction – clipped the side of the dancer's head.

"I've been knocked 'round the noggin at least four times in the last three days, sah." Fjord sniffed in the most dignified manner he could muster under the circumstances. "I don't need any more addling, thank you _very_ much."

"Well, put a fish in it, then," Twill rejoined. "An' will ye catch 'er already, Wibbly? Don't tell me ye need Sprangle t' lend a paw."

"Sprangle?" Fjord couldn't help the snigger. It was all just too ridiculous, too late at night, and far too tense. "Oh, dear. Your mum didn't like the look of you in the old litter basket, eh?" He received another clip for his trouble as Wibbly caught Aya's next punch and used the momentum to flip her over and pin her down.

"Right, then, my lass," the hare panted. "I've got you, wot?"

"Far more than most other chaps could say, I'm certain," the fire dancer mumbled, staring resolutely away from the metaphorical daggers the squirrelmaid shot in his direction from the floor.

"Sprangle, get that fox conscious an' movin', mate," Twill commanded, pointing to Hector. "An' keep an eye on this one." He jabbed Fjord's arm with more force than necessary. "I'm goin' t'check on Toouhvakined. Might've – ye want another smack, hare?"

Fjord bit his lip to suppress the hysterical giggles beginning to bubble up.

"Might've caught those runners."

"If not?" Wibbly wondered.

The otter cast an appraising eye over Cecil and the nearby kits. "Think we got a good enough crop 'ere t' call it quits fer the night."

O~O~O

As it happened, Toouhvakined, a Sparra warrior sent out with Twill's company, had lost the Gergregs and Alastia somewhere in the middle of Veil Village.

"You want night fliers, call on bats or owls, riverworm. I _say_ wait for morning," the bird grumped when Twill explained the situation to Wibbly and Sprangle. And that was that.

With Toouhvakined ferrying the hedgehog dibbun on his back and the other two ensconced in Sprangle's arms, the party set off, Twill in the lead, studiously ignoring Aya's declarations of loyalty to the Redwallian cause and status as a pursuer. Cecil held his tongue on the matter, and so, indeed, did Fjord. If he was going to be dragged off to the clink, better it be with the wretch who had forced him to be there in the first place.

They marched until the rosy fingers of dawn crept across the sky and presented a dashed persuasive argument for the existence of the Fates and fantasy with all the wonder and majesty they held. Sleepless and sore as he was, Fjord did enjoy the morning. Sylvi had always said it was the perfect time to practice. So rose the fire in the sky, so too rose the fire _dancer_, as her logic went.

Antero had never been very keen on the dawn, nor had his other wives. Why, M'am's Lura, Cherrywhite, and Gwenn didn't rise until midday if they could avoid it. M'am Cherrywhite had once mentioned something about needing her beauty sleep. When the young Fjord had inquired why Sylvi didn't engage in such a curious practice, he was met with mysterious snickering. A sense of propriety and appreciation for the inexplicable ways of the fairer members of his species prevented him from directing the question to Sylvi herself. Well, those things, and a firm belief that such questions would result, once more, in the lack of a conveniently-placed water bucket during fire juggling practice.

Fjord let his thoughts meander toward Mary and Salamandastron as they entered into Redwall City and trudged along the main thoroughfare. Merchants greeted them with varying degrees of disinterest, too busy setting up shop for the day to take notice of four poor wretches and one fiery, overbearing wretch tied up and being led to their doom.

Their destination became apparent some hundred-paces on when they turned a corner and saw only one building looming at the end of the way: The Redwall City Prison.

"I say!" Fjord protested pulling up short. "Bit stiff on the accommodations for a chap who just flew the coup."

"Move, old thing," Wibbly urged, shoving the dancer forward. "You're all suspects in the murder of Abbess Dittany and the Abbey fire. Can't rightly let you go roaming about after you 'flew the coup' once already."

"I keep telling you," Aya bit out, "I'm not a suspect. I'm–"

"Save it for the Skipper," Sprangle advised.

"We only bring treeworm for to question," Toouhvakined added. "Only want treeworm to have fair say when ready."

"By golly, but doesn't _that_ sound familiar, Ms. Aya?" Fjord sneered.

"Shut up, rabbit."

"Ms. Aya, I would ask that you refrain from referring to Fjord as a rabbit," Cecil began, eliciting a burst of fraternal affection from the dancer's bosom. "Truly, he is a–"

"Shut it, all o' ye," Twill interrupted as they drew close to the prison gate. Around it, a gaggle of hares lounged, some sipping at steaming tin mugs, others playing cards atop a makeshift table, and still others gathered in a tight circle around as distinctly badger-ish figure.

At the sound of their approach, the hares hopped to attention... and that was when he saw her.

"Mary!" Fjord dashed forward before his captors could stop him.

She gawped at him, and even that was lovely – the things he'd like to do to that perfect pink mouth in such a state. And he almost reached her to fulfill the first item on his list: A kiss. Unfortunately, the Long Patrollers surrounding the gate were quicker off the mark than their Redwallian Guard counterparts.

An unseen force slammed Fjord's body into the gate and held it there, twisting his arms up until he screamed for the abuse.

"Stop, Cheesy!" Mary commanded. "You're hurting him."

"Blighter bally well deserves it!" the tormenter at his back rejoined. He sounded dashed familiar. "The brigand tried to jump you."

"He's just excitable, Cheesy. You know that," Mary returned.

_Cheesy?_ Somewhere in the recesses of Fjord's mind, a memory sparked.

"C. Sharpe Major!" He'd meant it to be accusatory, but it came out as a breathy squeak.

"That's _Colonel_ Cheesewright Sharpe to you, Hollyhocks," Cheesy growled, but released his arms nonetheless.

"Congratulations on the promotion, old thing," Fjord wheezed, turning about. "A 'music colonel' now, eh?"

Cheesy's face took on the precise expression of a taxidermied toad Fjord had once seen in the private rooms of a wealthy woodland lord. Before the Long Patroller could slam him against the gate a few more times, though, Twill interrupted.

"Colonel, sir." The otter saluted. "We found these ones on a tip from a resident o' Veil Village as saw 'em skulkin' about. They look t' be part o' the actin' troupe that was at large. A few gave us the slip, though."

"Yes, yes, very well." Cheesy waved a paw. "Get them inside, wot?"

"Well, there're some kits with 'em, sir."

"Kits? _Kits?_ Does _every_ bally suspect come bearing the fruit of his loins?"

"Don't think so, sir," Twill replied. "No squirrels, 'ares, or foxes. I think... I think I know one o'em. Liddle hedgepig. Parents thought she was killed in the fire."

"I see," Cheesy said, stroking his whiskers. "Well, take them aside. We'll return them to the Abbey once we've asked them a few questions, wot? In the meanwhile..." He turned his attention back to Fjord and smirked. "Make sure this one's bag is extra tight."

"I say!"

O~O~O

When the bag came off, Fjord found himself in a cell with Aya and Cecil, the low ceiling and lack of windows making him feel more than a little claustrophobic. The space ran about fifteen paces long and five paces wide. The cell itself was located directly next to the treacherous stairwell they had descended to enter the place, and Fjord found himself relieved that he hadn't somehow tripped and tumbled to his death down the narrow, irregular steps.

"Welcome t' Block B, m'luds and lady," a seedy-looking, runt of a hedgehog exclaimed, leering at them as he cut the bonds on their paws before stepping out of the cell. "If'n ye needs anythin', jist ask. We try t'comodate our _lodgers'_ requests." The leer widened, and his eyes contracted to demonic, black slits as he slammed and locked the door. "But seein' as we ain't a ' tavern, that ain't allus possible. Heheheh..." He oozed away, the Long Patrollers and Hector and Thera's bag-headed forms in tow. They heard the rattle of keys further down the corridor.

"Fat lot of good you were back there, Featherhead," Aya began directing her heated gaze at Cecil.

"I am not certain I understand you, Ms. Aya," the bard replied, testing the bench at the back of the cell. "The goals were to arrest the troupe and return to Redwall. Have we not accomplished these?"

"The goals didn't say anything about getting arrested ourselves," the squirrelmaid fumed.

"Well, if you didn't take a swing at every chap who gave you the gimlet eye, miss," Fjord said, "I fancy you wouldn't find yourself tied up so much, wot?"

"And you!" She whirled, and Fjord stepped back, grateful that all throwing and cutting implements had been removed from her person.

"Settle down now," the gaoler commanded, oiling past their cell with the Long Patrollers, _sans_ Hector and Thera. "Should I 'ave sep'rated the lady from the luds?" At their confused looks, he added as he crept up the stairs, "Yer reputation precedes ye, hare."

"Of all the bally nerve!" Fjord growled, the cackling of the gaoler and hares echoing around them. "Scaly prat. Looks about a half-step off from a stick-covered weasel."

"Regardless," Aya began, but Cecil cut her off before she could build up another head of steam.

"Fjord, that was your wife at the gates, was it not? I thought you had said she was at Salamandastron."

"I thought she was, Cec," the hare replied, tugging at an ear. He grinned. "But this is wonderful! She's safe amongst the old LP... or as safe as she can get with that Cheesy chap on the prowl."

"What _was_ that all about, anyway?" Aya wondered. He raised an eyebrow at her sudden interest, and she glared back defiantly.

"Cheesy hates me." Fjord shrugged. "Has since I proposed to Mary. The blister even went so far as to invite himself to our wedding reception. Showed up completely sozzled and threatened to break my legs in two-to-six places."

"Two-to-six?" Cecil asked.

"Well, it started at two and kept going up as he was dragged out of the room, don'cha know? Rather think he might've been counting off the pints of ale he'd downed by that point, wot?"

"Yes, well that still leaves us with being stuck down here," Aya redirected the conversation. "I didn't sign up for this nonsense."

"I didn't sign up for this at all," Cecil pointed out with a sigh.

"Cheer up, Cec," Fjord said, hopping over to pat his friend's shoulder. "Not like they have a reason to keep us here for very long. Just a few 'who, what, and when' type questions, and we'll be out."

"I never signed up to be a pursuer, Fjord. I simply left," the squirrel said. "And I was with Dittany before she died. I am just as much, if not more, of a suspect as that fox."

"Why were you with Dittany?" Both males started at Aya's sharp inquiry.

"I really don't think that's any of your business, Ms. Aya," Fjord covered. "I was with her before she died, as well, wot? Had to get my letter from her."

Cecil blinked. "She gave you a letter?"

"You remember? The one from Mary. Well, I had to wrestle her for it," the hare explained, voice growing fainter as the memory reared up once more. "It-it was a bit of a... she didn't really think–"

"Squirrel!" This time, Fjord's footpaws left the ground at the unexpected interjection. It was the gaoler again, looking much less chipper than before. "The one with the hat. Get over 'ere."

"Why?"

"B'cause yer wanted, treejumper," he sneered, disappearing for a moment to the right, then reappearing with the keys. "Ye two stay back." He eyed Aya and Fjord as the bard tramped forward.

The hare and squirrelmaid shared a brief look.

_'Could you take him by yourself?'_

'Yes.'

'How about the chaps upstairs?'

'...No.'

'Right, then.'

The gaoler locked the door and re-hung the keys out of sight before departing with Cecil. The squirrel cast a worried glance back over his shoulder, and Fjord offered his bravest smile. "Cheerio, Cec! Hope we don't see you down here again, wot?"

Aya blew out a sigh of frustration. "This all could've been avoided if you morons had just come back with us in the first place."

"I dare say it could've been avoided if Ms. Dittany hadn't been murdered, wot?"

"And why you said I was with you..." the squirrelmaid continued, ignoring his comment. "Of all the cock-eyed–"

"Mary!" Fjord interjected as he caught sight of his wife emerging from the stairwell. The gloom could not suppress the lady hare's natural radiance, and the dancer felt the very air around him brighten as she approached.

"Oh, Honeybunny, I knew you'd come to rescue me. Now, the gaoler's just popped off, so if you'll get the keys from the thingummy over there, I shall embrace you directly." He paused, then continued, "It does beg the question, though, what in the bally blue blazes are you doing at Redwall? And... and Honeybunny, the keys are over there." He pointed down the corridor to his right. Mary stood, unmoving, in front of the bars of the cell. She crossed her arms. "Erm... I don't mean to rush you, Honeybunny, but an expedient rescue would be preferable. Few other chaps down here that need the Hollyhocks what for to escape the old iron bracelets. And we might need your help avoiding the fellows upstairs, eh? Old Cheesy, in partic–"

"Who's Rosemeade, Fjord?"

"Rosemeade?" He laughed, a tinny sort of sound that felt dishonest in his own throat, let alone out in the open air. "Oh, well, she's... just a gel, really. Young chappess full of vim and vigor!" He regretted the description immediately. "Er... that is to say, she enjoys a bit of sport – _Fishing!_ She enjoys fishing. Just a gel I was helping out, don'cha know? Improving her technique... with a rod! A _fishing_ rod! Nothing more innocent than that, eh? I'm sure you've helped loads of chaps improve their... technique... with a rod." Fjord found his mouth twisting into a complicated pattern somewhere between a grimace and a nervous smile. He sidled up to the bars and put his arms through. Mary held her ground just out of reach.

"I imagine Helena and Branwen are of a similar vein?" She kept her face as bland as a cliché, chocolate gaze staring at something over his left shoulder. He chanced a look behind and saw Aya rolling her eyes at the ceiling. The situation became much less amusing in the space of a blink.

He gulped and replied in a whisper, withdrawing his arms and pulling himself flush against the bars, "Er... yes. Something like that. Now do hurry up please, Honeybunny. I _have_ missed chatting with you, but there's a time and a place, wot?"

"No."

"Look, I know it's all a bit sudden, me being locked up and accused of everything short of instigating the Quarry Riots in the Spring of the Sparra's Return, but I really must insis–"

"No." Something in her tone shook him.

"Mary, wot's wrong? Is it breaking me out? I know you Long Patrol types are a hard-nosed lot, but couldn't you–"

"We're done, Fjord." She drew in a breath and for the first time, he noticed her tall ears quivering.

He tried to smile. "We've yet to begin, darling. Rather the point I was trying to make."

"Don't," she said, closing her eyes and running a delicately-calloused paw across her brow. "Please don't. I can't do this anymore, Fjord. I thought that maybe Arabelle..." She trailed off, shaking her head.

"But... I... I didn't do anything untoward!" the dancer protested. "And besides," he continued with a sniff, "I've been working dashed hard to set things right. Haven't seen you donning the leather gloves for toil, o vision in green frock and white leggings."

Where her face had been slumping toward despair, it now tightened with rage. "Wot should I have to do? You're the bloody philanderer!"

"Well, you don't have to be so tetchy about it," Fjord grumbled. "Dash it, but you know how I'm affected by you 'fairest of the land' types."

"Certainly the most _affected_ creature I've ever met," Aya scoffed, just loud enough to deserve a kick.

"And I am trying," he pressed on. "More than a gel like yourself could expect from less decent fellows like that Cheesewright chap."

"You're as _in_decent as they come," she growled, ripping the wedding band from her paw and holding it up. "I promised you 'forever', and you can't even go a bally month! We're through." She stepped forward and presented the ring to Fjord. "Take it. I'm sure you can get a bit of coin for it to spend on your... _fishing partners_."

The dancer's ears fell and his eyes widened. Without thinking, he pushed away from the bars and hid his paws behind his back. "M-Mary... you can't really... I mean these changes in one's character take... I love you! We can work this out. We always do, wot? That's how these things go: I do something silly, you throw your knives at me, then we laugh, and all's well again."

Mary sighed and shook her head, balling the paw with the ring into a fist. "Not this time. Miss Squirrel?"

Aya quirked an eyebrow at the lady hare, but otherwise remained silent.

"Catch." Mary threw the ring and the squirrel caught it. "Please, give that to him after I leave."

"Wot? Mary, stop!" She began gliding toward the stairwell, her fair footpaws untouched by the grime around her. "Please! Just wait a moment. Let me explain. Stop, damn it!"

Mary stopped, wheeled about, and stared at him. It took a moment for Fjord to work out why she looked so shocked. He'd just sworn at his wife – ex-wife... sort of, but not really. Fjord Hollyhocks wasn't the sort to forego a fire for a few wet sticks. If she wouldn't believe his words...

_Then show her, Fj!_ Sylvi cried. _That's what dancing is, my darling. It's every emotion and word you could ever dream up. So show her!_

"I don't want any other gels chucking knives at the old Hollyhocks corpus, Mary. Can't even imagine it..."

It felt strange to dance for her here – a little stone box with rusty metal bars on one wall – and it wasn't just dancing for her. He could hear Aya's derisive snort not a badger's length behind. It didn't matter, though. He closed his eyes for a moment and exhaled slowly, concentrating on the rhythm only he could hear, the one Sylvi had taught him to hear.

In his mind's eye, he saw Mary as she had been the first time: bold, shy, decisive, hesitant, brave, terrified, and a hundred other contradictions. She'd taken his paw and led him through the motions of love, like so many others, but then, she'd done something different, something he'd never seen before. She'd pulled him from the familiar steps, forced him into a new pattern with a rhythm he could not always predict.

He opened his eyes and saw her standing there, biting her lip – a paragon of hares conflicted because of him.

_Not bad, Fjord,_ his father's voice congratulated. _Not bad at all! You've got her. Now, clip her wings and tie her down for good, wot?_

Fjord tried to shake Antero from his mind, and in the silence, he searched for the dance. The steps glowed gold in the dust, skimming along the straw-strewn floor and arcing through the air. He could see it. He had to make _Mary_ see it.

Sliding away from the bars to the center of the cell, the fire dancer fixed his eyes on Mary.

"What are you doing, rabbit?" Aya demanded. He ignored her. She didn't matter.

_'Your ears must attend and your blood must be fired,'_ Duskwatcher had said what felt like weeks ago in the caves. Fjord let the fire infuse him and take away all the aches, pains, and fatigue.

He thrust out his arms toward Mary, ears back, knees buckling, and fell to the side, rolling and drawing himself up into a pirouette.

"Hey!"

Fjord folded Aya's exclamations and scuffling into the fabric of his dance. He wound around her, throwing his leg up and over her head as he spun again, before running to the far wall and kicking off of it into a back flip, his hindquarters brushing the low ceiling. The hare followed the golden trail his mind had conjured, stamps and claps interspersed amongst the flowing twirls and staccato jerks. He had to show Mary that she was everything to him: the easy movements, the difficult, the simple, and the complex.

He breathed hard through his nose, footpaws lifting from the ground for a final time as he leapt toward the bars from the back of the cell, eyes half-lidded and senses lost in the rhythm. She would see. She had to see. She–

She was gone.

Fjord blinked, panting, as he gripped the bars and tried to find Mary. She had moved from the stairwell, but where else could she be?

Aya coughed in a way that suggested a particularly large nut had become lodged in her throat. The hare whipped his head toward her. She had squeezed herself into a corner and sat smirking at him.

"She left while you were prancing about, you know? Crying, I think."

"Wot?" The fire rushed out of him in a great inferno, leaving him sagging against the bars, suddenly very cold.

"Was that supposed to help?" the squirrel continued.

His footpaws slipped, and he slumped to the floor. "Why would she...? I love her."

The smirk fell from Aya's face and for a moment, Fjord deluded himself into thinking she was going to say something kind. "Well, I suppose it could work... if you were a pair of twitterpated woodpigeons."


	74. I Know Why I Got Voted Out

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 73. I Know Why I Got Voted Out  
**

_by Shandi  
_

Shandi awoke to the most horrible sound in the world: a Dibbun crying.

"Stop sobbing already, Demitri," she muttered drowsily, her eyes still shut.

Then an even more annoying sound broke over the crying.

"What is it, Ella? Do you want food? A pot to bang on? What do you need from Poppy?"

"She needs ye to smack her across the face already and _shut her ruddy crying up_!"

Shandi's eyes snapped open and she sat up in the dingy cell, rubbing at her left arm, which had fallen dead asleep. Dominic's exasperated, whiny voice would be enough to put anybeast off sleep. That, combined with the whelp's high-pitched wailing, was the perfect storm.

Dominic hugged Ella close to him, and the little weasel squirmed fussily. "What would you know about kits? You'd probably just try to eat them."

Shandi snorted, still rubbing at her arm. "Oh? And what would _ye_ know about kits, practically being one yerself still? Stop acting so superior, weasel, because it's getting old."

The strange otter in the hat was now watching their exchange, looking most interested.

"I'll stop acting superior when you—_oof_—stop acting like the victim." Ella's flailing footpaws had caught Dominic a good one in the stomach, and she finally made her escape, toddling over next to Shandi.

The squirrel pushed her away. "Sod off, runt."

Dominic let out a great bellow and leapt upright, but to Shandi's surprise, the otter pulled him back down.

_"Don't you ever touch her!"_ he shrieked.

"Easy," said Juniper. "No need to escalate things. It was much more entertaining when you were just throwing insults back and forth."

"Oh, put a cork in it, otter," Shandi snarled. "I've got no problems with not touching the filthy little beast ever again anyway."

Ella crawled back to Dominic. "A not filly," she pouted. "Campin."

Dominic patted her head. "Yes, Ella, we'll go camping again soon once we get out of here."

"The weather should be lovely for it," Juniper added unhelpfully.

In the short time she'd known him, Shandi noted that Juniper added a lot of unhelpful things.

"Get stuffed," she sneered.

Juniper turned to her and shrugged calmly. "Already looks like you do that on a regular basis."

"Oh, the deep, dark places I'd stick yer stupid-looking hat, otter. Want me to show ye?"

"It's not down your throat, is it? Because that could solve two problems. Your hunger and your lip."

"Once I'm done with _yer_ lip, it'll be yer new hat."

"Least I'll have better use of it!"

"That doesn't even...Shut up!" Shandi barked. "If I had my axes..."

"Both the violent types, I see. Fascinating, putting you two together," Juniper said, as if the entire argument between them had never happened.

"This is stupid," Shandi snarled. "Martin never said I'd have to deal with _two_ morons."

"Marten? Which one?" asked Dominic. "Why is everybeast obsessed with martens lately?"

"No, not marten. Martin!" Shandi corrected, then sighed at the weasel's blank look. "Martin the Warrior? That old mouse legend? Champion of Redwall? Supposedly killed some cat and helped start this abbey?"

"Never heard of him," said Dom, shrugging, but Ella clapped her paws excitedly.

"Martin! Martin!"

"Oh, now you've got her going again!" The exasperated weasel put a paw to Ella's lips, shushing her.

"Listen, there's something ye need to know," Shandi began. "I've heard from—_somebeast_—that something terrible's going to happen at Redwall. And it's up to us to—"

She fell silent at the sound of pawsteps approaching. Two guards, a dusty old otter with an eyepatch and a rather matronly squirrel wearing a gaudy headscarf, approached the cell.

"Shandi Fen, you are to come with us," the squirrel said. "Lady Willa has requested to speak with you before the trial."

"And ye can go tell her I request that she boil her tail."

"Ah, the famous mother-daughter rivalry. A bit overdone if you ask me, but still effective. And the plot thickens..."

"Shut up, June!" Shandi yelled.

"Let's go, Fen," the squirrel guard spat, as her companion unlocked the cage. They pulled her out and stuck manacles back on her wrists. Shandi snarled, struggling vainly against her captors. She caught one last glimpse of the cell, where Juniper waved at her, Dominic stuck out his tongue, and Ella leaned against the bars, her bright eyes following Shandi.

_The Champion of Redwall...Champion...Champin...Campin..._

"Dom!" she yelled as they neared the door of the dungeon. "It's Ella! She's not saying 'camping,' she's saying 'cha...'"

The door slammed, cutting off the rest of her sentence.

They dragged her, bound and gagged, up the stairs. Somehow she couldn't muster the energy to fight back. Instead she went limp, letting her footpaws trail uselessly on the ground. She heard their grumbles about her being a deadweight, and a particularly heavy one at that, but it served them right.

Into the abbey proper they took her, and she shut her eyes, trying to block out the image of the abbess's broken body at the foot of the stairs as they went past the very site of the murder. The haremaid had deserved what she got, for stupidly killing Penny. Dittany, however, hadn't done anything to her.

A door opened, and Shandi was thrust into a small study.

"So, you've returned, have you?"

"Hello, Mother. Father. Sister dearest." The sentiments were injected with as much spite as she could muster.

"Leave us," Willa said to the two guards, who did as they had been commanded. Willa's eyes flicked from the closed door back to Shandi. "I'm surprised, to say the least. I never thought you'd actually go through with it. You've got more spine than I thought."

Shandi took several short breaths before answering. "Eh...through with what?"

"You're joking, right?" Clove scoffed. "Killing the abbess, of course. Our plan went perfectly."

_"What?"_ Shandi and Linnet gasped together.

"Oh, don't act so shocked, Linnet," Willa scolded. "We might have asked you, but we needed somebeast to take the fall. Luckily, Shandi volunteered."

"No, no, shut up, Mother!" Shandi interrupted doggedly. The air seemed to be thinning as they spoke, and Shandi was taking great gasps now. "Ye don't understand. I _didn't_ kill the abbess!"

Clove rolled his eyes. "You don't have to lie to us, Shandi. Save that for the trial."

"But...but I didn't! I really didn't do it!"

"But then...why did you run?" asked Linnet. There was a softness in her eyes that Shandi had never seen directed at her before. It rather caught Shandi off guard for a moment.

"Because! I thought _they_ killed her!" the squirrel sputtered, pointing at her parents. "They told me if I hesitated, they'd finish the job, and they'd still pin it on me somehow. I saw the abbess's body at the bottom of the stairs and I ran for it."

"Mum! Dad! _How could you?_" Linnet shrieked. "Dittany was a good creature! I know you hated the treaty, but still!"

"Because they're evil, scheming bastards, Linnet," Shandi growled, blinking back the stars that had cropped up in her field of vision.

"Watch your tongue, Shandi," Clove spat.

"And technically, we didn't kill her. It seems somebeast beat us to it, so our names are clear," Willa corrected. "The treaty was poison. Killing Dittany was the only way to restore the natural order of things. I didn't enjoy it, but it had to be done. You're both just children, so I wouldn't expect either of you to be able to understand."

"We understand far better than ye ever could, ye bitter, greedy hag," said Shandi. Her footpaws trembled slightly beneath her and she swayed, but she hadn't finished saying her bit yet. "I've seen woodlanders and vermin live together. It's possible...when they're not being tremendous gits about it."

Like so many times before, she felt the stinging smack of her mother's paw across her face.

"That's enough." Willa's voice was shrill with barely contained rage. "You ungrateful little _tramp_."

Shandi blinked hard, glaring into her mother's face. "Go to Hellgates, Mother."

"I'll see you there, I'm certain!" Willa snarled. "Linnet, get the guards. I've heard enough."

Shandi's sister paused. "Wait...You're not actually taking her back to the dungeons? She just said she didn't do it! Our names are all cleared!"

"Can't leave any possible loose ends," Clove said coldly.

"Ye can take those loose ends and go fu—" But the rest of Shandi's curse was drowned out in violent coughing.

"Guards, Linnet," Willa snapped.

"Mum, look at her! She can barely stand. She needs to go to the infirmary!"

"She's just pretending, like she pretended she couldn't even climb a tree during training. It's not going to work this time, Shandi. Your pitiful acting skills won't get you out of this."

And Willa swept to the door and called for the guards herself. As they grabbed Shandi and began to drag her away, Linnet gaped.

"I...I..."

"Shut up, Sis," Shandi wheezed. It was satisfying, in a way, to see her sister so concerned about her. Telling her she had to go to the infirmary was a bit much, though. She was just a little dizzy was all. It wasn't the first time this had happened.

The guards led her back out of the abbey, and as they did, Shandi felt something building up inside her, something terrifying.

"Why...aren't we going back to the dungeons?" she asked the guards when she noticed they had changed course and were in a completely different part of the city.

"Because we're busting you out," the otter said, lifting his eyepatch and winking at her.

Even under all the heavy makeup, she recognized the eyes and the voice.

"Sycamore?"

"We're taking you to Tristram, who's waiting just outside the city," said Nanain, and suddenly Shandi felt like and idiot for not recognizing her stern voice earlier. "Then we're going back for Dominic and Ella."

"There's an otter as well. Juniper. He's a massive git, but ye might as well save him, too," Shandi said.

The squirrel stumbled, and Sycamore and Nanain steadied her.

"Are you all right? Shandi?" Sycamore asked.

The squirrel nodded, wheezing.

"I'm f—"

Then, everything that had been building inside her exploded in a torrent of white-hot pain. She couldn't even scream as it tore through her. It was as if she had never experienced true agony until now. She went limp, her mouth sagging.

"Shandi! Shandi!"

She couldn't tell who was yelling or where she was. Everything was drowned out in a roaring current that threatened to sweep her away. She gave in, and everything went blissfully dark.

~

"You two must return to Redwall and tell them what has happened. I won't be far behind," Gormlaith said.

Sycamore and Nanain nodded, then turned and left.

The ferret joined Tristram, who stood beside the makeshift stretcher upon which Shandi lay, his jaw clenched so tightly the tendons on his neck stood out.

"I'm sorry," she said. "She would've made a great Sentinel someday."

"Aye."

Gormlaith continued to watch him, and as she did, a question sprang unbidden from her lips.

"Would you ever have told her?"

Tristram absently stroked one of Shandi's ears. He knew exactly what she meant. "I wouldn't have even known where to begin, I think."

She soon found the silence that followed too awkward to remain in his presence, and she walked a short distance away to let him gather his thoughts. Tristram succumbed to tears in the end, just a few tears that had broken through his iron defenses. He leaned down and clasped one of Shandi's paws in his own, kissing it. It was still warm, surprisingly, but he knew that soon the heat and the life would be replaced by unshakable cold.

"Come," he whispered. "Let's go home, Daughter."

end of week four. 


	75. The Election of Dittany

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

start of week five. 

**Chapter 74. The Election of Dittany  
**

_by Cairn  
_

The male shrew checked the corridor leading to the room he approached. He knew the two abbey guards standing at the far end would follow their orders and allow no other beast, resident or outsider, past them. Reaching his destination, he paused, opened the door and stepped inside.

The furnishings and décor were familiar to him as he occasionally entertained visiting dignitaries. A reddish stone facade at the far end signified an exterior wall. The two side walls showed masonry beyond the boundary of the hanging tapestries. Lighting came from two chandeliers that supported oil lamps instead of the candles that illuminated the rest of the Abbey.

The shrew nodded to the other four members of the Council of Elders standing near the red wall. In unison, the elders took their places at one end of the long dining table. Behind the elders sat a mole at a separate table with a pile of parchment stacked nearby. Three other beasts sat with the mole, each holding writing quills like soldiers with swords at the ready.

The shrew took the seat at the head of the table facing the elders. "Is there anything we need to do first?" None replied to his question. "Then let's begin with the invocation of the oath and a review of the last time our Council selected Redwall's new leader."

The mole passed out several scrolls, which each member read before passing them to the next beast. When the last member read the final document, the mole gathered the scrolls and exited the room. The scribes remained. As each council member spoke, the scribes transcribed their words.

"For the record, we elevated Charnack to the position of father abbot fourteen seasons ago. I advocated his forced retirement prior to this season due to diminishing capacity and retained the right to revisit the issue as his failing health dictated. I hereby withdraw that request and move to have all mention of the matter deleted from the official record. The old otter served our Abbey well and there should be nothing left behind to besmirch his reputation now that he has died."

The lone female, a squirrel with fur singed from the cooking fires she tended, gave the shrew a slight bow. "You're most generous to our former abbot now that he is dead, Narvin. I just don't trust your motives. Rumors have it you'll be posting your name for his position."

The male hedgehog seated to her left rattled his quills. "Narvin's mate has a mouth that never closes. Unlike our chairbeast, she has been maligning our former abbot ever since the fiasco at the festival where he forgot what season had just ended."

A male otter snorted. "Narvin's mate might have an open mouth, but yours is one who continually feeds you the latest gossip. I just wish you would occasionally verify facts."

The last member of the Council, an elderly mouse, polished his glasses while staring at the table. "The motives of our chair are not up for debate. Neither is the prattle of our mates. Let us focus on the matter at paw. We need to select a new father abbot as soon as possible. These are troubling times and many look to Redwall as a bastion of stability."

Every head nodded. The shrew stood. "Our esteemed mouse is right. I'll ask each of you to name six for the position without conferring with anyone. If any beast gets a majority of the votes, then we need only ask if he will accept the position."

Over the next hour each beast considered their choices. The hedgehog finished his preferences first. He then awaited the decision of his fellow council members. Last to complete his selection was the otter. The chairbeast then tabulated all the nominees chosen.

"I'm disappointed. Not one name received more than two votes. Even more shocking is that every candidate is male."

Lady Willa broke the ensuing silence. "Redwall has been ruled by a male for over a hundred seasons. I believe our last sixteen rulers have been Father Abbots. You're not suggesting we elect a mother abbot, are you Mister Narvin?"

"Indeed I am. We are entering a more progressive era, one needing a new kind of leadership. Even now the village that was but an hour's walk has in the last twenty seasons expanded to become a city encroaching on our doorsteps. Our Abbey isn't the great power it was in bygone days. We need to show we too are ready to embrace the future. To that end, I have a list of ladies who would fit the position quite well."

The council members perused the list. "All of these females are up in seasons" noted the mouse. "If we elevate any of them, we'll have to select another successor before the second winter."

"The new abbess need only last through this fall" said Narvin. "When she passes on, we can elect another male, one with the strength and vision to lead us in these uncertain times. After her death, I shall officially submit my name as the next leader of Redwall."

"Shrews are reputed to have a cunning mind. You have just proven that to be true. Seems like we all underestimated you." The otter tipped his chair back until his heels left the floor. "As you said, we are entering a new era, one filled with uncertainty. We need a strong leader now, somebody who will preserve the ideals that define Redwall."

"I agree with our chair" said Lady Willa. "Electing a female is not unusual. There have been many who led the Abbey in even more troubling times then these, so naming another is no precedent."

She waited until the cries from the other three males subsided. Then she turned to the Chairbeast and noticed his pleased expression. Willa gave a dainty cough as she let the tension build within the room.

"If we are to name a female, I nominate Dittany."

The shrew's expression changed from one of pleasure, to surprise, and settled with insulted. The other members of the Council kept very still as they watched the Chairbeast react to the suggestion.

When the otter spoke, his calm voice sounded like a shout in the utter silence. "That squirrel is an excellent choice. I hear she has been acting as an adjudicator within the village, or should I say city, whenever there is a dispute between vermin and woodlander. She is highly respected by both sides, and is seen as fair in her rulings."

Narvin did shout, which had the others cringe. "How can you call her an excellent choice? My oldest daughter has as many seasons as her. That tree jumper doesn't have the experience needed for such a demanding role."

The mouse polished his glasses, his eyes staring at the far wall. "What you mean is that she is young enough to outlast you and your singular ambitions to rule this Abbey. That is sufficient reason for me to second the nomination. All in favor signify by saying 'Aye.'"

A resounding chorus echoed in the room and the mouse gave the shrew a sly grin. "The vote is four in favor and one opposed. Motion carried. What say you approach her with our offer Lady Willa? If she accepts, we can have her sworn in as our new mother abbot by noon tomorrow."

Every beast rose as one with the exception of the stunned shrew. As the last beast to exit the room, the hedgehog could see the shrew still sitting at the table. The hedgehog hesitated by the door long enough that the shrew finally noticed him.

"You played an excellent game of nobles, sir. I suspected you had most of the prominent members of this Abbey ready to do your bidding. Rumors had it a lot of woodlander dignitaries within the city also supported your rise to power. No doubt your negative attitude towards vermin has fueled the growing tensions. Your move was indeed a bold one and should have worked."

"Then why didn't it?"

Once again the hedgehog rattled his quills. "In order to win at the game of nobles, you must consider all possibilities. When you insisted we nominate a female, it left an opening for Lady Willa. She countered with a female we could accept and one that removed you from power, a combination none of us could resist. As you said, we are entering a new era, one I see where such labels as woodlander and vermin will hold no meaning."

The hedgehog's expression changed from unreadable to open mistrust. "Electing you would be a step backwards. I fear you would tarnish our Abbey's peaceful reputation by fostering troubles for those vermin wishing to live in peace. We can ill afford such hostilities continuing. If I were you, pray Dittany accepts, otherwise we shall elevate Lady Willa."

Narvin's voice could not hide his rage. "That squirrel is well known for exacting vengeance on those who oppose her. Considering how many times I blocked Lady Willa's efforts and belittled her in public, I'll be evicted from Redwall within the hour of her becoming our new Abbess, probably with the assistance of several guards using very sharp spears."

"My sources tell me you have been instigating much of the troubles between woodlanders and vermin. Nothing that can be proven in any court of law, but I believe them. If you became our father abbot, I fear a genocidal war. Something I'll not allow."

The shrew sounded a mirthless laugh. "Even if I'm not the father abbot, I still wield much influence. In time I will see every vermin species exterminated. There is nothing you can do to stop me."

"Pray I'm not the one evicting you. I'm now more inclined to shove a spear up your spine and mount it over the gate as an example to others like you. A death that is long in coming and painful to boot seems too lenient, but it will do. And don't think naming Dittany will save you. If I learn you have not mended your ways, I will see to it that on a dark night a sharp knife will find your heart."

The hedgehog slowly closed the door not only to a room with one occupant, but to a shattered dream.


	76. Kneading the Mind

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 75. Kneading the Mind  
**

_by Juniper  
_

Shandi's last words were cut off by the _slam_ of the closing door.

"What was she trying to say?" Dominic asked. He had taken Ella back, and was currently fussing over the hay she had picked up when Shandi had scooted her across the floor. For once, the kit seemed content with the attention.

"Search me," the otter replied. His eyes had followed the squirrel out as best they could, something he was entirely dissatisfied with as she was out of his sight before she had even left the jail. He wondered for a brief moment if he had gone too far with the fat jokes, but it was really the best ammunition he had, considering. A nice scene from _The Taming of the Shrews_—on his part, that is. A few substitutions and ad libs, but the general premise was the same. Juniper frowned at a sudden idea. Most of his interactions—or at least, the ones he could remember best—came from various exchanges in plays and stories. Was it that he was unable to hold a conversational intercourse without relating it to a comparative scene?

His thoughts wandered to each interaction he had over the past few days. It seemed whenever he was unable to draw from a source, taking it upon himself to write the scene unaided, everything ended in disaster. Well, he thought, that was going to change, starting _now._

"Dominic," Juniper said, turning to the weasel. Dominic had finished fussing with his kit, and the two were cuddling on the spare bench that Shandi had left vacant. It was hard for the otter not to crack a smile; it was just too adorable.

"Wha?" the weasel said, his tongue caught between the word and Ella's fur.

"Where did you get those bruises?" He indicated the welts that had sprung up since they had been brought in.

"I dunno." Dominic shifted, obviously uncomfortable, and went back to fussing with Ella's fur. "How did your paws get to be bandaged?"

Juniper took on a dark look. "I don't want to talk about it," he said. Indeed, if he could forget the whole scene at the forge ever happened, he would, and he'd be better off for it, too.

"So don't ask me about my bruises. I don't want to talk about it, either."

"Codswallop!" Juniper declared.

"What does that mean?"

Juniper didn't know; it just sounded like a nice word for the occasion. Nevertheless, he tried to save it. "When we were locked up, you didn't have those bruises. Truth be told, you didn't look like a scruffy-looking nerf-herder."

"Who's scruffy-looking? Wait … nerfs?" The weasel sighed. "I knew it. Let me know when my ears fall off. It'll be that or the leprosy. Wonderful."

Dominic eyed Ella's neck, and rubbed her fur with his paws. Then he clenched his jaws. Juniper giggled at the rhyme.

"Relax," Juniper said. "Nerfs don't really exist. They're just a reason to get Dibbuns to scrub behind their ears."

Dominic pinned his own back in annoyance as he held his kit in his arms. Seated on the bench, he glowered at Juniper, then scratched behind his ears. It wasn't until he started searching through Ella's fur that it became hard for Juniper to suppress his smile. The otter was having a lot of fun.

"What are you doing?" Juniper asked.

"I just want to check Ella. She might have fleas."

"Or nerfs?"

Dominic gave Juniper a disparaging look, if that was the right word to use. Juniper wasn't sure—he wished he knew the meaning of it. No matter; the otter knew what he was trying to convey.

"Codswallop," Juniper affirmed.

"Why do you keep saying that?"

"I don't know. It has a nice ring to it."

"Well, I don't like it."

Juniper frowned. "Why not?"

"Coswap!" Ella beamed.

"Oh, look what you've started! Ella, don't say that word—it's naughty."

"It's not naughty! It's cute!"

"No it's not! Do you even know what it means?"

"Why does that matter?"

"What if it means something terrible? Like walloping cods? I won't have Ella declaring a desire to wallop cods!"

"What?" Juniper paused, trying to work through the statement. "Why?"

"It's … it's just not something I want her doing!"

Juniper sat down on the other bench and gave Dominic a searching look. "Come on," he said, studying him, "out with it. Where did you get those bruises?" Dominic wasn't like Fjord or Dànaidh: he was nervous, insecure, and above all, a terrible liar. Juniper knew, with a little prodding, he could _weasel_ it out of him. The otter giggled silently at the pun. He was on fire today!

"Why do you keep grinning like an idiot?"

Juniper shook his head. "Doesn't matter." If Dominic wasn't going to admit it, Juniper would force it out of him. Or even better…

"You gave yourself those injuries, didn't you?" the otter asked, although it was more of a declaration than a question.

Dominic looked up in alarm. "What? No, I didn't."

Juniper nodded. "Yes, you did. Don't think you can hide it from me."

The weasel shook his head. "You're crazy. Why would I give myself bruises?"

Juniper shrugged. "I can't say for certain. Maybe you're searching for attention. Look, you're doing it right now." He pointed to the blood on Dominic's paws.

He stared aghast at his claws. "What?"

"You're scratching yourself raw! For what? Nerfs? I told you they don't exist. You're the kind of guy who'll hurt himself and then blame it on somebeast else just for a bit of attention."

"But I didn't hurt myself. It was the otter! He said I killed his brother."

Juniper shook his head. "Dominic." His voice had adopted a tone of worry and concern. "He was trying to get you to _stop_. You were so in grief over the realization of it that you practically tried to kill yourself."

Dominic hesitated. "That's not how it happened at all," he said in an uneasy voice.

If Dominic was shrinking in doubt, Juniper was growing in strength. "I was here!" the otter proclaimed, his paws flailing in animated gestures. "I saw the whole thing! He had to cuff you to make sure you would be safe."

Dominic tested his chains, which he suddenly seemed to remember, then shook his head, not wanting to believe. "Stop it. You're not serious."

The otter nodded. "You're blaming your injuries on him just as you would blame your ears on nerfs and leprosy."

"But he really did beat me…"

"Did you kill his brother?"

Dominic straightened his back. "No."

Juniper gave the weasel a hard, serious look. "Yes, you did."

"No, I didn't!" Dominic yelled. "Why does everybeast think I killed some mangy old otter!"

"Shh, calm down. Relax; we'll get through this. You're in denial, that's all. Nothing to be ashamed of."

"I'm not in denial. I know what happened."

"I was there, Dom, don't you remember?"

Dominic raised an eye. "I've never seen you before in my life."

Juniper nodded slowly, as if he was coming to his own realization. Really, he was just trying to figure out what he could do with all this. "That's okay. You've never remembered me before. It was silly to think you would now."

"What are you talking about?"

"I was there, Dom, when you killed him. You don't remember? He was trying to take Ella away from you."

Dominic opened his mouth, then paused. "I think … yes, he was."

Juniper masked his look of surprise with a pensive expression. It had been nothing more than a wild guess, but he hit the mark. Fantastic! The otter was getting excited. His fur was beginning to stand on end, and his heart quickened with the thrill of the game. He needed to stall to collect his bearings. "Was what?"

"Trying to take Ella from me." He hugged the kit, who squirmed in his arms.

"Got go potty," she whined.

"Oh, there's a good weasel!" Dominic ruffled her head fur, smiling. "Good jill, telling Poppy. Come here, Ella. Off with that diaper. Now let's see if we can't make this bucket presentable…"

Juniper was glad for the brief respite, as it gave him time to mull over things. By the time the weasels had come back, he had it all planned out.

"So you really don't remember killing him?"

"I keep telling you, I didn't kill anybeast!"

"Stop it, Dom. I know; I was there."

"You weren't there!" Dominic said, his fur bristling. "You're the actor from the stage! You ran before I—" Dominic stopped. His tail had bottle-brushed. "I never killed him! Her! I never killed my uncle! An otter! Or anybeast!"

Juniper nodded. "You remember. It's coming back to you, isn't it? That's good. At least traumatic events leave an imprint in your mind. You just have to know where to look for it."

"What are you talking about?"

"Amnesia, Dom! You have amnesia!"

"I don't have amnesia," Dominic scoffed.

"Of course you do!" Juniper said. "That's why you don't remember!"

"I remember perfectly!"

"So what did you use?"

"A dagger!" The weasel froze.

"Wrong!" Juniper shouted, pointing a bandaged paw at Dominic. "It was a poisoned arrow."

"I've never used a bow and arrow in my life!" Dominic gasped.

Juniper laughed. "Says the winner of the Mossflower Archery Challenge three seasons running!"

"That's Glacis!"

Juniper's face fell. "Dom, what _happened_ to you?"

"I don't know! Did something happen to me?"

"Check your head. Do you have any irregular lumps?"

The weasel's paws rummaged through his head fur, and stopped behind one of his ears. "Yes," he said quietly.

Juniper nodded. "I thought as much. It's all right. Don't worry about it," he said, noticing that Dominic was becoming short of breath. "We'll get you through this. We might be able to get your memory back. Maybe…" He paused for effect. "Maybe you'll remember me."

"Who are you?" the weasel cried.

"We grew up together, Dom." Juniper shed a tear, the single tear he had been working on since Dominic and Ella had returned from the bucket. It couldn't have come at a better time. "We were best friends."

Dominic's eyes glistened in the ray of light that shone through the small window hovering above them. The weasel was crying. Juniper's own tears now came voluntarily; what was once forced sadness was now unbidden joy. He had been perfect, absolutely flawless. Juniper was truly a master of his craft.


	77. Spurring the Late Traveler

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 76. Spurring the Late Traveler  
**

_by Dánaidh_

He didn't feel the landing.

Though his eyes were closed, he felt the world spin—a ferocious, gyrating whirl that threatened to rattle the teeth loose from his skull. Dánaidh knew he had to keep his eyes closed—_must_ keep them closed—but in a terribly inexplicable sense, he wanted to open them. Perhaps seeing the end of him _whooshing_ past his own eyes…all of nature and creation blurring in a distorted cacophony that would ultimately consume and dispose of him, leaving his filtered fragments scattered on the roaming winds…perhaps that would end the incessant, eye-gouging pain he felt; bury the rotten guilt he carried across his exhausted shoulders; and leave a breathing weapon where it belonged: in the ground—cold, dormant and forgotten.

Dánaidh opened an eye.

The world wasn't turning.

Dánaidh sighed.

The world consisted of thick, downy-soft grass that waved gently in the hint of a breeze. The sun, with its welcomed warmth, slipped in its descent, its falling crawl nestled between the tree-lined horizon and the dark upper limits of the heavens, where thin wisps of clouds soared in silence. Dánaidh groaned and pushed himself up on his knees. His gash throbbed momentarily, screaming its pain behind his eyes, then slowly subsided. The unwanted voice of The Haze bubbled to the surface of his mind.

_Tread carefully…_ it hissed.

Dánaidh groaned again and rose to his footpaws, extending his arms for balance. _It's sad to think a strong breeze could knock me down,_ he thought. _What's happened to me? What have I become? I'm a free beast…well, I _was_ a free beast. I've got empty pockets, an empty stomach, a broken head and a bunch of critters wanting to kill me, and I've got nothing to show for it._

He closed his eyes and inhaled through his nose. The welcomed, distant scent of fresh rain and warm grass wrapped around his senses, and he smiled. He knew exactly what he would do.

"I'm going home," he said aloud to nobeast in particular. He opened his eyes and glanced about, scanning the horizon until his eyes found a rut in the field—a rut that Dánaidh was confident would reveal a pawpath. He touched a tender paw to the wound on his head, nodded to himself, and set off towards the rut.

After a moment's walk, the wild grass parted, yielding to a dark, dirt-lain path. Hundreds of passing footpaws packed the soil flat, with the occasional carts bearing travelers to distant hovels and coves. The russet path snaked back and forth through the fields, disappearing under a grove of trees at one end, meeting the sky at the other. Dánaidh stepped out of the grass and onto the path. A small cloud of dust danced around his footpaws, heralding his arrival. He stared at one end of the path, then the other, frowning in thought as he considered which direction to take.

_Follow the sun's fall,_ The Haze suggested. _At the fork, break to the north and you'll see the familiar foothills._

"Ah, the foothills," Dánaidh said, following on The Haze's suggestion. He walked at a comfortable pace, following the path's general westerly direction. "There was a sweet spring nestled by the pines, last time I walked that way. I hope the ice has melted from it."

_Yes,_ The Haze concurred. _But we—_

Dánaidh slowed his walk, then stopped. The Haze was silent.

"Speak," Dánaidh commanded. No reply came. The edges of his vision remained clear. Dánaidh's grin grew wider. He stretched his jaw, rubbed at his chin, and snapped a digit as an idea crept into his mind.

"A gay gowd ring's a cankerous thing, 'boot th' mossy matanzie," he recited. He opened his mouth in a wide, silent cry of enjoyment and clapped his paws as he spun on the path. "Bless me spines! I sound loch me auld self again, a-hay!" He snorted and quickly dabbed away what some might have thought was a tear from his eye, cleared his throat and bit his lip. "Right. Now, back 'ome where I b'long. Lessee hoo far I can get a'fore nightfah."

Dánaidh walked as the sun disappeared behind the foliage of the distant woods. When the path bent to the left, he noticed a small shack just off the path. It was modest in appearance, and with clothes hanging on a line and toys scattered in the grass, Dánaidh assumed it to be a family's home. As he inspected the house from the path, his stomach growled.

"Aye, enough a'that," he chided to his stomach. "We'll sit ye straight soon." He walked up towards the shack steadily, aware that his appearance might frighten somebeast inside if he didn't calm their initial fear. "Hailse!" he called, waving a friendly paw towards what looked like a window. "Hello! I'm a travelin' 'edgehog, just peekin' fer a bite tae eat. I'll bonnie chore fer me sup, 'n' iffen ye can spare a few vittles, I'd be forever beholdin'." He stepped up to the front of the shack and knocked a paw against the door. "Hello? Anybeast in there?"

The door creaked open against his knock, and his eyes scanned the interior. He blinked rapidly and stepped through the entrance. The home was a still scene of violence. Simple tin dishware lay scattered on the dirt floor; parchments and books were torn in pieces, littering almost every flat surface; a home-made dining table lay on its side, one leg broken off and missing from the other three; candles rolled under Dánaidh's footpaws, absent from their intended positions on the table and around the walls.

"Please answer! Hailse?" As he carefully stepped through the shack, inspecting the mess, Dánaidh noticed tell-tale marks of a physical struggle against the far wall: rough indentions outlined in cracks marked the spots where somebeast had been thrown into the wall, and jagged thin lines revealed where the fallen had tried to regain their footing on the wall. Dánaidh stooped and looked for blood but found none. Whatever happened in the shack, it appeared the attackers had taken their victims alive.

Dánaidh bolted outside and scanned the small yard and edge of the path nearest the shack for signs of a quick escape or continued struggle; the only pawmarks on the path were his own. He rolled his neck and swore under his breath in disappointment, returning to the shack. He closed the door behind him, fetched a candle from the floor and dug through the piles of parchment until he found a tinderbox. He opened the box and grabbed the firesteel, flint and tinder and quickly lit the candle with a few strikes from his paws. He lit a few of the other candles and placed them in the holders riveted to the walls, then righted the table and spotted an oil lamp in the dirt. The top globe had been shattered, but the wick was intact and the bottom globe held plenty of oil. He used one of the candles to light the lamp and sat it at the end of the table, satisfied with the amount of light flickering in the shack.

His stomach growled again. Dánaidh turned to the makeshift kitchen, digging through the cupboards and pantry and selecting a simple meal of oats, potatoes and corn chips. He returned outside to check the water pump and found it held a fresh supply, which he used to fill and drink several cupfuls. After satisfying his hunger and thirst, Dánaidh returned to searching for clues as to the whereabouts of the family or the identity of their attackers. He inspected the door and found the lock intact—it had been left unlocked. The windows stood firm and Dánaidh couldn't see any holes in the roof.

He returned to the table and began exploring the parchments scattered around the small interior. Many of the documents were simple correspondence between varying parties that Dánaidh had never heard of before, issuing orders or bickering between interpretations of those orders. One stack contained weather reports dating back five seasons. Another reported crop predictions for several farms. At the bottom right corner of each page, Dánaidh saw the same repeated mark: _D. Whisker, Run._ Dánaidh thought for a moment, then nodded when the insight hit him: _This is—was—the home of a 'runner,' or foot messenger. He took employment from any beast or group that needed to send correspondence from one place to the next as quickly as possible. He'd scribble his moniker on the corner to ensure payment from the recipient. Poor fellow probably hardly ever saw his family…I wonder if he's out delivering now?_

Dánaidh turned his attention to the doorway and sighed when he saw a knapsack hanging on a peg next to a burlap coat and walking staff. _I'd wager that's his sack,_ Dánaidh thought, walking over to the sack. He pulled it free from the peg and opened the sack, exploring its contents. The sack held only one document: a letter, sealed with a wax seal and ribbon. Dánaidh pulled the letter out and inspected the envelope. The only writing on the parchment lay on the front: "Read and Burn." Dánaidh hummed and broke the seal, sliding the folded letter free from the envelope. He opened it carefully and read slowly.

_"You know what must be done. Our hold on Mossflower is slipping, and too many allies are growing comfortable making peace with vermin. We cannot bed down with evil, and we will not tolerate treachery. On the eve of the Blood Moon, snatch every able-bodied woodlander fourteen seasons and younger, and take them to the agreed place._

You will be handsomely rewarded for every kit you bring. Do NOT harm them. If their guardians resist, you may kill them, but keep the kits healthy and alert. We will restore Mossflower to its proper nature.

Make speed and stealth your ally. Do not fear those who resist us. Fear us if you fail.

- Willa"

Dánaidh folded the letter and placed it back in the envelope. _What does it mean?_ he thought.

_…scuffling._

Dánaidh whirled around, eyes darting about the small room, seeking the source of the noise he heard. _No, it wasn't scuffling…it was scratching!_ Dánaidh overturned a chair by the table as he roamed around the edges of the wall. He cocked his head and listened for the sound again.

The ground broke open under his footpaws, and Dánaidh disappeared into the darkness…


	78. El Manana

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 77. El Manana  
**

_by Cecil_

_"Alright, ye scamps, lights out. Time fer bed."_

Overwhelming cries of protest issued from a cluster of Dibbuns in the middle of their nightly pillow fight, their fluffy weapons still slung over their shoulders, preparing to swing.

"No buts," Abbess Dittany replied. "You've been out berry pickin' all afternoon. Now it's time fer bed. There's plenty of time fer ya t' play t'morrow."

The group of kits grumbled as they made their way back to their small truckle beds, sliding underneath the covers and pulling them snug on top of them.

"Kin we go berry pickin' agin t'morrow, Muvver Abbess?" a mousemaid piped up.

"Aye, I tink we aten all o' dose berries up on da way back."

"Uh-huh, we did."

"Can, we, pleeeeeasse?"

"Alright, that's enough," Dittany interjected. "We can, if_ you get those eyes of yours shut and go t' sleep. I want t' hear snorin' by th' time I come back t' check on ya… or else."_

The kits nodded, shutting their eyes tight as they tried to fall asleep.

Abbess Dittany blew out the candle and turned to leave.

"Muvver Abbess?" a high-pitched voice queried from one of the beds.

"Hmm?"

"Kin Mister Cecil come too?"

The squirrel was silent for a moment, then smiled. "Perhaps." She tiptoed out of the dormitory and gently pulled the door shut.

"Well, well, aren't you militant, Miss Dittany."

The squirrel abbess chuckled at the bard's statement. "Only when it comes t' my job." She brushed off her spotless, green habit absentmindedly. "It appears as if they've taken a likin' t' you, Mister Sassafras. They wouldn't stop talkin' about you at suppertime earlier."

Cecil grinned and touched a claw to one of the many feathers adorning his cap. "Bah, hogswoggle. It's probably just the hat. Kits always like the hat."

She chuckled. "Well either way, Mister Sassafras," Dittany began, "I'm very grateful for your help with takin' care of th' Dibbuns today. We haven't had a badgermum in so long…"

The rest of her speech didn't matter. Every word that escaped her lips went through one ear and out of the other, but so long as she continued talking, Cecil was happy. Her voice put the finest melody to shame.

"…and for that I'm very thankful."

"Hmm…?" he replied. "Oh, oh, yes, right. And you, my dear abbess, are very welcome. It would be outside of my nature as a true and noble gentlebeast to be unwilling to go out o' my way to help a lady like yourself."

"Well then, surely you wouldn't mind spendin' th' day with me tomorrow and helpin' me watch 'em again?" she asked. "They really do seem t' like ya and enjoy yer company, and I'm sure 't'would make 'em happy."

Cecil saw a twinkle in her eyes. "Well, of course I would. I cannot possibly let you take on the task by yourself. And, quite frankly, I enjoy their company, as well." Watching over the kits might not be romantic, but it gave him an excuse to be with the abbess. "Anything for you, my dear."

The abbess blushed.

"In fact," Cecil continued. He paused, inhaling a breath in preparation. The moment had arrived. Alajake had been easy. With so many suitors asking for her paw before he had, she was accustomed to having love confessed to her. But Dittany was an abbess. It wasn't just asking for her love, it was asking for a leap of faith. She would have to step down from abbess, something she had strived for, and toss it away like the crumpled parchment of a failed song. "In fact, I would be happy to take care o' the Dibbuns every day, so long as I am with you.

"Abbess Dittany, from the moment I laid eyes on you in the forest, your beauty has struck me helpless with wonder, and your keen wit leaves me dumb, wishing only that I might hear you speak once more. Surely it was fate that drew us to one another. As light is bound to seek out and embrace the shadows forever in her grasp, so too are we destined to fold our paws together. Ever my light... So, I ask of you Abbess Dittany- no, my love_- do you and will you love me as I do you?" His cheeks flushed and his breath came in gasps on frightful anticipation._

Dittany was silent save for her breathing. "I… err… Cecil, I'm an abbess. I can't."

"But, simply because you can't does not meant that you don't or shouldn't try. Not trying is like… like… I'm not sure, but it's bad. You just admitted that you loved me, did you not? So, surely we are meant to be," Cecil argued. "It's fate!"

"But I'm an abbess!" Dittany said, suppressing a yell. "The Fates would never allow us together, nor would the Order."

"Then give up on the Order, stop being an abbess and be with me."

"I can't!" she practically shouted. She quickly corrected herself. "I can't, Cecil. I-I enjoy bein' an abbess. In-in fact, I'm th' first abbess Redwall's seen in well over a hundred seasons and everybeast is just lookin' for a chance t'say that I wasn't the right beast for th' job," she stated, a tear in her eye. "I do, Cecil. I do love you and I want to, I won't deny that, but I-I… just can't, Cecil. I'm an abbess."

Cecil stopped for only a heartbeat. "I do not mean to be rude or offensive but are you truly an abbess?" Dittany stared at him, shocked. "From what I can gather, you're nothing more than what you told me you were before, a common diplomat able to speak 'vermin'. However, this comes with the added 'benefits' of acting as a common goodwife: tending to kits, sewing up clothes, and cleaning house. Sounds to me as if your position was lowered rather that raised."

"That's not true," Dittany said. "I control an entire order of beasts."

"Dittany, it sounds to me as if they control you._ What right do they have to say that you can or cannot love? I'm sorry, I… just… why is it that you won't love me when you say that you do?"_

"I'd have t' leave th' Order," she answered.

"Then do so," Cecil suggested.

"I don't want to. Cecil, why do you love me?"

Cecil answered instantly. "Because you are one of the most beautiful maidens I have ever set my eyes upon not to mention the most brilliant as well. You are funny, smart, and you never cease to amaze me. In your eyes I see a stunning jewel that shines and reflects your inner beauty like a mirror. And in your voice I hear a song so sweet that it enraptures me until it is all I wish to hear. And in your smile-"

"That's enough, Cecil." Tears spilled down her cheeks.

"But-but I love you," he argued. "And I don't want to lose you. Please, I… I have had many maidens deny me their love, please don't be the first to tell me they love me and then walk away? I… please…?"

"Cecil, I…"

"Dittany, if you wish to walk away, then I swear I shall not stop you, but please listen to me," Cecil pleaded. "I love you with all o' my heart and I… this isn't much but I wrote this for you."

"Eyes of amber, ever charming,  
T'was one fine day I found alarming.  
This bonnie bright lass,  
Was filled up with class,  
And her smile had a way of disarming.

And showed she such favor.  
This nave who did labor,  
To give her his heart.  
If e'er they she part,  
So she had something left still to savor."

Less than a heartbeat had passed, before Dittany pressed herself against him and kissed him lightly on the cheek. It only took a moment for Cecil to realize how good a kiss felt. He had never felt one before but, even if it was a simple peck, the squirrel realized how it conveyed so much emotion. It felt warm like a fire on a cold winter's night. "You're pathetic," she joked.

"Not pathetic, my darling," Cecil replied, "in love."

She laughed. "Why do I love you?"

"It's simply the hat," Cecil answered. "Maidens always like the hat."

Dittany snickered. "Cecil, I don't want t' lose you either."

"Then you shall not."

"But, I don't want t' resign as th' abbess and I can't let the other members of the Order find out about us," she said.

Cecil nodded. "Then we shall only meet in the still o' the night while everybeast is asleep. No matter what, we will never let a soul know o' this and you will not be forced to resign."

Dittany shook her head skeptically. "There are a lot of beasts in this abbey, Cecil. Rumors spread quickly."

The bard laughed and stood back to his footpaws, brushing the dust off of his pantaloons nonchalantly. "Ah, risk. Where's the excitement without it?" Cecil straightened his posture and extended his paw like a gentlebeast. "Dittany, although this is a corridor and not a ballroom, would you care to dance?"

"You dance?" She chuckled.

"Only a little," he answered, "but, yes, I dance."

Dittany hesitated for a brief moment, the time seeming to stand still with her inhaled breath, until, finally, she reached forward and took his paw. Cecil almost recoiled from shock at how it felt. It was light and gracious, loving and warm, almost like the kiss she had given him. Slowly, he cupped his claws around her paw and held firmly, not wanting to let go or loosen his grip. "Now follow after me."

Cecil didn't know how long he had danced with her that night, tripping over her tail and struggling not to accidentally step on her footpaws, nor did he know how long she had slept next to him, breathing peacefully with her arms wrapped around him in a loving embrace. But what he did know in those few hours he had spent with the abbess, stroking the fur on her head tenderly and staring out of the open window of her quarters at the pale white moon as it slowly descended towards the horizon, was that he never wanted the sun to rise.

-.0.-

Cecil gave a dramatic sigh as he slumped down upon the miniature bed that adorned the dormitory Dittany had given him when he had first arrived at Redwall. It was a fairly small room, only slightly bigger than the cell he had spent the previous night in, but it was homey and comfortable, with simple yet well-carved cabinets and an elegant wardrobe lining the sandstone walls. A small pile of homespun quilts had been placed on his bed at some point while he had been traversing Mossflower, sewn symbols of mice and badgers decorating the soft cloth in different shades of brown and red.

Cecil rested his head on a pillow, grabbing his lute from where it leaned against a nightstand and laying it over his chest.

Skipper's beasts had been kind enough to bring the instrument back with them, towing it more carefully than Rufus had. The squirrel only counted thirteen scratches they had added to the surface. They had also, for whatever reason, let him out of his cell, which was odd as Aya had been a pursuer just as he had. The only possibility Cecil could think of was that somebeast, maybe the kits who he had rescued, had vouched for him saving them.

"Hmm," the bard said to himself. He strummed a melancholy chord, pulling his notepad from his pocket.

It had been almost strange at how the memory had come to his head, the events replaying perfectly. The squirrel shook his head in disbelief. Had he really been that forceful with her, not giving her a choice of wanting to be with him or not? No, it had to be a mistake with his memory.

He strummed another chord.

"Roses are red, violets are blue,  
You know that I love you.  
I take your paw and you take mine,  
"Ain't this evenin' awfully fine?"  
We dance together, young and free,  
Because we were always meant to be."

_ "I've opened up my heart to you,  
Because my love is oh so true." _

Cecil frowned and scratched out the lines he had just written on the parchment. "Rubbish."

He scribbled two more lines.

_ "I've opened up my heart to you,  
Won't you open your heart too?" _

_Scritch._ He scratched them out. He dipped his quill back into his bottle of ink.

_ "I've opened up my heart to you,  
Please don't make me feel so blue."_

Scritch.

Scritch. Scritch.

Scritch. Scritch. Scritch. Scritch. 

A tear fell down upon the parchment, leaving behind an ugly, circular stain on its surface.

It wasn't fair. Why was it _she_ the one that had to die? Why was it always him who had to suffer?

_ "…An' yew, yer children, an' yer children's children shall be cursed with the worst kin' o' luck fer all o' yer days." _

"Be quiet!" Cecil yelled. His bottle of ink flew through the air as it left his paw and smashed into the walls, shards of glass flying from the impact and leaving behind a pitch black splatter of ink running down their dusty surface. The squirrel grabbed up a quilt and sobbed into it, drowning one of the sewn mice with his tears. "'Gates, what's happening to me?" the squirrel groaned, burying his head in his paws to hold back the sobs. "Why did you have to leave me, Dittany? Why did they have to do that to you?" What had been the purpose?

Cecil put aside his lute and sat upright, standing from his bed and trudging over to a cabinet. Opening the doors, he searched through the drawers for another bottle of ink, pushing aside the assorted clutter that littered the inside. His paw brushed against something.

The squirrel gaped at the black box in the drawer. It was miniature, barely half the length of one of his claws, with a leathery surface that was soft to the touch. A silver clip sealed whatever was inside shut.

The bard knew it would be a mistake, but something urged him to retrieve the box and release the clip. He looked inside. Staring back at him was a ring, a sparkling diamond embedded at its center.

Cecil slumped down to his knees, shutting his eyes tight against the sight of it as tears poured down his cheeks. He had bought the ring shortly after his and Dittany's encounter, waiting for the right chance to use it. She would have said no, but a beast could never know unless they took that chance.

And he would never get that chance again.

Cecil buried his head in his paws. "Dittany… I…" he tried to say. "Do you blame me for what happened to you? Is it my fault that you're dead?" He flipped the box closed and stuffed it into his pocket. "Dittany, I'm sorry."

Wiping his eyes, the squirrel sighed and stood up a bit too suddenly, bumping his head on the bottom of the drawer he had obliviously left open. He groaned, holding his paw to his head, and watched the drawer wobble from the impact before sliding loose from the cabinet and plummeting to the floor, spilling its contents all along the dusty ground.

"'Gates." Cecil hurriedly sorted through the jumble, putting the fallen drawer back where it belonged and tossing everything back into it in no particular order. He grabbed an old songbook he had already filled from where it lay and, by some instinct, flipped through it. His eyes scanned through the pages as he turned them, drinking in the words he had written sometime before. First was _Wind in the Sails,_ a ballad he had written about a sailor lost at sea. He flipped the page, setting his eyes on _The Seer,_ a morbid tale about a young vixen who knew the date of her death. And then-

Cecil looked curiously at the piece of folded parchment lying between the next two songs. Carefully, he inspected it, folding open the paper to find out what it was.

It was a song, of course. What else would be in a songbook? But it wasn't his song.

_ "A twirling river, a calm sea,  
that's how I think of you and me.  
Young at heart, full of vigor,  
full of rapids this twirling river.  
Yet rivers turn to oceans and oceans turn to seas,  
Everything has an end to it, even you and me.  
Our love is like this river,  
Twirling, spinning, lasts forever.  
Yet our love is like this sea,  
We must be calm and quiet if we wish to be.  
And just as a river has to bend,  
One day it will end."_

"If it ends today, if it ends tomorrow,  
Do not worry, do not fret,  
There's no need for sorrow.  
If I die, or if you,  
Wait for me and I will too.  
Although our love will become a sea,  
Do your best and smile for me.  
Because in Dark Forest, you will see,  
We shall be together, you and me.  
It will once again become a river,  
Twirling spinning, full of vigor,  
But most importantly, it lasts forever."

Cecil reread the song over and over again. He remembered this. Dittany had written it for him as a gift.

The squirrel's tears seemed to vanish as he imagined the abbess singing it to him, her voice as sweet as honey on an autumn day. It was almost surprising at how true her words were. Their love would go on forever, regardless of what happened, and… she would wait for him. It had never been his fault. He slapped himself mentally for even thinking it. Before he knew it, he was crying again, letting out the last remains of the sadness that had plagued him.

And then he smiled.

-.0.-

Cecil hadn't managed to figure out how Dittany's song had calmed him down so much. Maybe it was because he imagined her singing it, her voice sweet and soothing. Another possibility was that she had given him a chance to let everything out, leaving only the tattered remains of a pathetic chuckle ghosting across his lips.

The tiny laugh had somehow helped as he felt more rejuvenated, and the world seemed to be back in focus.

He was back on his footpaws.

Being depressed was not him. He was a Sassafras, and Sassafrases never gave up, never gave in, and always picked themselves up when they fell, even if they were pushed down again. Dittany was dead, but it wasn't his fault. It had never been his fault. And now nothing would stop him from finding her murderer and putting him to justice. He was her love and, just as the song had said, he had to smile… for her.

Cecil let a smile grow on his face. It had seemed like an eternity ago that he had truly smiled.

But what the squirrel could not figure out was how he had managed to wander around the abbey until he had eventually settled in front of the Skipper of Otters' new office.

Nor could he figure out why he was knocking on the door.

"Yes?" he heard Skipper's voice come from inside.

Cecil gulped. This was like walking into his father's office all over again only, instead, he was walking into a beast's office who would kill him if he made the wrong move. The squirrel hesitated, thinking to turn away and run back to the safety of his dormitory, but decided against it. He slowly turned the handle and walked into the room.

"Yes, hello," the squirrel said to the otter and sat down in an ornate oaken chair. "If I may, may I have a word with you?" He looked around him. The otter sat behind a mahogany desk, the warm glow of the sun shining upon him from an open window behind him. Bookshelves of historical documents and letters addressed to the abbess were placed around the office like bubble meant to cage whatever beast stood inside with a vast array of knowledge. A decorative fern sat in the corner, a gay reminder of the outside world in this lair of labor. Cecil had been here many times. This was Dittany's study.

"Cecil?" Skipper said. "What d'ye want?"

"As I said, I wish to have a word with you."

Skipper sighed. "This is about the reward, isn't it?" He groaned. "Gimme a minute, let me get it out." The otter began searching through drawers.

"No, no, not at all," Cecil quickly said. "I want to talk to you about something else."

"About what?"

"Dittany."

Skipper stopped. "What about Dittany?"

Cecil gulped. He knew he had to tell somebeast if he ever wanted to truly move on and feel happy again. Meredith had managed to get him to talk, but he had changed the truth. This time he needed to tell the truth, about everything. "I-I… I was in love with her."

Skipper snorted. "I knew that, lad. Ye were moonin' after 'er like a lovestruck trout. I 'ad t' 'ave some o' me otters guard 'er while she was bathin'." The otter eyed the squirrel up and down, then snorted again. "That all ye wanted, t' tell me somethin' I already know?"

Cecil inhaled a breath. Dittany and I loved each other. We were seeing one another... intimately before she passed on. She did not want to resign as abbess, but wanted to be with me, too, so we conducted our affair discreetly. I... well, I was invited to her bed on numerous occasions."

"Are we comin' t' the part where ye tell me somethin' new, lad?" Skipper said, uninterested as he flipped through a file.

"What? You know?" Cecil gaped. "But how?"

"Knew ye two were at each other fer a while now," the otter explained. "Dittany accidentally gave it away when I saw 'er smilin' at ye one mornin'. Sharin' a bed's new, aye, but I 'ad that figgered out 'fore she was murdered."

"How did you figure that out?"

"Dittany's a fine liar, an' I probably would've fallen fer 'er excuse o' ye givin' 'er yer lute, 'cept I saw yer tail stickin' out from under the bed."

Cecil cursed his luck. "Well, then I assume you know that I got her pregnant then, right?"

"WHAT!" Skipper threw aside the file. "Ye got 'er pregnant!"

"Apparently you _didn't._"

Skipper placed a paw to his forehead and massaged his temples. "Why are ye tellin' me this now, Cecil? Thought the point o' an affair was fer nobeast t' find out."

Cecil looked at his footpaws. "I… I just needed to tell somebeast. I'm… I'm tired of lying about her, about how much I loved her. Whenever somebeast mentioned her, I had to make myself seem uninterested, like she was just another squirrel no different than the rest. But she isn't, and I'm tired of saying that she is. I just want to tell somebeast so that I can get it off of my chest, so that I can remember what if feels like to not be a liar."

Well, then why are ye tellin' _me_, ye fish-brained son o' a shrimp?" Skipper demanded. "Why would ye tell the beast most likely t' 'ang ye fer admittin' it?

"I-I don't know… Fjord has known since the first day I met Dittany, so I couldn't tell him. And Aya… she wouldn't understand. But you, I don't know why, but I feel as if I can trust you."

Skipper sighed. "Aye, that sounds about right fer one o' the few beasts I c'n trust."

"You… trust me? I've been having an affair with the bloody abbess!"

"Cecil, did ye murder Abbess Dittany?" the otter asked.

"Of course not, I loved Dittany with all o' my heart," he answered. Cecil reached into his pocket and produced the black box, opening it so Skipper could see the ring. "I was going to ask her to marry me, Skipper, and now… I can't. Skipper, I'd never lay a claw on her… let alone kill her. I loved her far too much."

"An' fer that reason, I know fer a fact ye didn't," Skipper said. "That's why I c'n trust ye. Ev'rythin's got outta paw here: the murder, the explosion, the treaty. We need t' solve this murder 'fore somethin' worse happens t' Redwall. I c'n feel the pike circlin', Cecil. There's blood in the water an' the longer this Abbey's bleedin', the worse it'll be."

"I agree," Cecil said. "I want to find Dittany's murderer and I want to see him hung for what he did to her." He sighed. "I want to be happy again, Skipper. I fear Dittany's death has changed me for the worse. But I believe... I _know_ that if this murderer is brought to justice, I shall be able to move on… and… I can wait for her." He got up to leave. "If I may ask you of a favor, Skipper."

"Hmm?"

"Please don't tell anybeast about mine and Dittany's relationship. She was always afraid that her reputation was going to be ruined, and as far as I can tell, she was the best abbess we have ever seen. The peace treaty was going to make everything right between vermin and woodlander, and…" Cecil chuckled, "she was a hero. Everybeast always tried to push her down and say she wasn't worthy of her job, but she was! I… I wish I was like her."

An' now that's gone t' Vulpuz in a shrimpin' dinghy," Skipper growled. "Mind ye, lad, I'll be the first t' say those vermin'll never mend their ways, but treaty... the treaty could've 'elped." Cecil nodded. "I 'ope I'm wrong, mate, but I think there's a revolution comin', an' we need t' find the murderer 'fore it does.

The squirrel nodded.

The otter considered him for a moment. "Well, then, Cecil, I've got a job fer you."


	79. Interlude with Alastia

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 78. Interlude with Alastia  
**

_by Juniper_

Alastia had a fantastic night. After losing those idiotic brutes that were a pair of pine martens, obviously a printing press mistake gone horribly wrong, the feline had only wandered a few minutes in the dark woodlands before coming across a fantastic mansion of an abode. The whole thing had almost been unreal, but a few knocks on the door had proven the surreal existence was not at all in her mind.

She recalled vividly the beast who answered: a well-trimmed butler of squirrel species, dressed in fine livery and complete with a little bow-tie. The whole thing was so adorable she just wanted to eat him up. Manners first, she told herself, and allowed him to escort her to the living quarters, where she was told it would only be a little while before the masters of the property would be down to see her.

And so she waited, while the squirrel butler fetched a solitary glass of wine and a plate stacked with small choice cubes of cheese that Alastia had to admit paired very nicely together. She picked daintily at each cube and savored the taste, taking care to ignore the instinct of shoving it all down her throat, as well as the desire to down the wine in a single gulp. As much as she was hungry and thirsty, she was still a lady, and she would not allow such peasantry desires to overcome her sense of nobility and bourgeois.

As she dined on wine and cheese, she found the squirrel to be truthful in his words, and it was not long before the masters of the house came to present themselves before her. Alastia had been seated on a couch of fine, elegant leather, with so many cushions that one would think they would hamper in the comforting process, but Alastia had never been more comfortable.

The masters of the house, as Alastia had hoped (expected, rather), were felines as she was. However, their markings were distinctly unfamiliar—she remembered that muchand as they introduced themselves, they spoke in the most alluring accent that had ever graced her ears. It was nothing she had ever heard before, but the dialect was not so foreign that the feline had trouble distinguishing their words. She popped a cheese cube in her mouth and sipped her wine. Delectable!

They had traversed across the great ocean seeking lands of fortune and merit. Why then here, Alastia had asked, and the group of felines had all shared a quiet chuckle. Of course, they had told her, to find a suitable wife for their son. At this point the pair had parted, and revealed behind them the most handsome beast Alastia had ever laid eyes on. He was gorgeous: his silken, silver fur glistened in the firelight that poured forth from the crackling hearth. His markings—like his parents—were not striped or marbled, like so many Alastia had known of felines to posses. Instead, he was speckled, the dots of darkened fur arraigned in neat little rows, nary a one out of order or place. It was as though a master painter had bestowed each spot himself, his critical eye as sharp as the brush used to paint them.

And thank goodness she had come by! The poor foreigners had nearly given up their search, and were preparing themselves (or their myriad servants, for that matter) on packing their belongings to try their luck in a different land. They were pleased with the way she held herself: she sipped wine like a true connoisseur, and upon what Alastia knew was a subtle quiz, had been flawless in naming the cheeses on her platter.

The son, who introduced himself as Maxwell (oh, how she loved the name Maxwell!) stepped in at this point to offer his own admiration. How darling she was, how exquisite! Her fur shone like the radiant sun, and her colors rivaled those of the setting. It was all very sweet, and the blush that blossomed on her muzzle did nothing more than cause another wave of adoration and praise. So modest, they claimed! Alastia assured them that she knew. When asked if she had any belongings, she replied nay, and they told her no matter, that where she was going, she would be provided all she ever desired.

It was at that point they offered her a bed to sleep in, and she lay with Maxwell throughout the entire night. Though the mattress was soft and possessed a plethora of pillows piled high and plenty, Maxwell's fur was soft enough for the bed to be unnecessary—indeed, the feline dared to play the idea that she was sleeping on a cloud—and warm enough that she found sheets as optional, though she welcomed them for privacy. She found it easy to fall asleep, curled together as they were, with his tongue grooming that one spot that was so hard to reach on her own. She could not wait for the morning, where she would be whisked away to a faraway land, and she'd never have to worry about pine martens, or foxes, or otters again.

Of course, this is _not_ what happened, and Alastia awoke with the biggest crick in her back that she could ever remember. An adverse effect of sleeping in a moldy, rotting old tree stump with nothing but a rock for a pillow and leaves to use as a moist blanket. Alastia hated that word: _moist_. And she hated those idiotic brutes that were a pair of pine martens for leaving her to fend for herself in the frightening, cold, dark woodlands. If she ever saw their faces again it would be too soon.

At some point, the night had passed, because it was the morning light that stirred her not from slumbers as she so wished, but from restlessness and discomfort. Even so, she tried to make the best of the situation, beginning her morning routine with a few basic stretches, until she found that crick in her back, and remembered her tail was still broken and swollen. She was thoroughly displeased to discover the rest of her body was not much better off. She hated it when her bones cracked—so unlady-like!—and yet that was the obstacle all her limbs required before something proper could be done. She refused to appease their demands. Opting then to forgo the stretching for the time being, she laid a critical eye on her own fur, but decided that keeping herself dirty would be far safer than participating in her morning bath.

The feline stamped her footpaws in irritation and ire, trying hard not to swish her tail. If those stupid pine martens had never left her she would never be in this position in the first place! How could they do such a thing? How could they do this to her? Her voice howled in displeasure and her limbs flailed in a tantrum, until she was reduced to pathetic sobbing on the pile of leaves that could only be described as the word she hated so much.

And what was she to do now? She couldn't go crawling back to them; she wouldn't allow it. They were probably long gone at this point. Besides, Alastia had never tracked anything before in her life. It was silly to think she could just waltz out into the woodlands, see a bit of trampled grass, and follow it straight to where the pine marten twins were off being idiots together. The feline might like to live in a fantasy world when it pleased her, but she at least was grounded in the firm footpaw holds of reality, which was more than that lump brain of an otter could ever claim. If it weren't for him, she'd never be in this mess. She'd still be acting with Hector, maybe even in the spotlight for once, instead of always playing second fiddle to that inbred wife of his and that psychotic otter. Honestly, Alastia refused to see what Hector saw in him. Even Gergreg thought it was lunacy.

But that did not answer the question of what she was expected to do. It had to be something—she was sick of sitting in this pile of leaves. So she stood, that was a start, and wailed at the state of her dress, then bawled when she remembered her fur was no better off. She didn't deserve such horrendous treatment. Oh, what she wouldn't do just to have some beast come along and take her away. It didn't even have to be her prince. She would settle for anybeast, so long as they had a nice dry blanket and a bowl of warm soup. Alastia sneezed. And now she was sick! Perfect! Just another stroke of bad luck to add to the others! The feline was sure she could paint a _picture_ with it all!

_Here lies Alastia_, it would say, with an open field and a mound of fresh turned dirt at the base of a rotten old tree stump. _Died in the prematurity of an inspiring life! No thanks to Gergreg, or Ger or Greg, or whatever they wanted to be called now, who knew? Or Envie, who was just an idiot, and June, who not only rivaled Envie in idiocy but also topped it in madness. Hector and Thera, too, for never realizing her potential and giving her the break she deserved, else she might have truly found her prince to whisk her away from such a horrid life that was the mediocracy of stage performance._

Yes, it would be a nice picture, with a single rose sprouting from the bare earth. It'd be dead, of course, because there was nothing nice about her death. Maybe then they would gather around and realize the how much darker the world seemed around them, because life without Alastia could hardly be called life at all.

But she wasn't dead, and as much as she wanted to, she didn't really have that big of a desire to die. That left … nothing. There was nothing for her to do. She couldn't chase after the pine martens, and sitting around until somebeast came by to take care of her was a ridiculous notion, especially if nobeast ended up coming. The last thing Alastia wanted to do was wait in a rotting old stump on a pile of moist leaves for hours on end for somebeast who would never come. It was at that point that Alastia realized she had nothing. No friends, no family.

Except Hector.

Despite his negligence and disregard for her talent, that blasted fox was all she had left. So what was she supposed to do? Find him? Ha! He was probably locked up in Redwall Abbey, awaiting judgment for his involvement in the Abbess's murder. Yet, Alastia knew that if anybeast could talk his way out of murder, it would be that fox, and without him, she was reduced to nothing more than a sniveling kitten, stamping her paws in the wet leaves beneath a rotting old stump.

Alastia promptly ceased her stamping. As much as she hated it, there was nothing else for her to do other than find a path to Redwall, or forge one herself. It figured that she had no idea what direction the cursed building lay. So, taking a deep, huffing breath, she hiked up her dress, picked a direction and started walking, wondering what more misfortune could come her way, and what would be the straw that finally broke the badger's back. Probably another run in with those pine marten twins. She hated them.


	80. There's Something About Mary

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

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**Chapter 79. There's Something About Mary  
**

_by Fjord_

_"Ms. Mary Silverflicker," Fjord lowered himself to one knee and grasped her paw as she sat at the small table inhabiting the better part of her junior officer's quarters, "I'm over the moon for you. Flipping, I should say. You're the jolly apricot in my pie, the fire in my dancing, the spiffy in my ness! You're abso-bal-lutely perfect!"_

Is he going to...?_ Every soppy romance title she had read – and vehemently denied ever having heard of after the fact – flashed through the haremaid's mind in a dizzying whirl of gold print and leather binding._

"I can't see my life without you in it," the hare before her pressed on. "'Mine eyes hath come unstuck,' or wotever that poet chap said. And come to think on it, I rather fancy having your eyes come unstuck would be painful, wot? But never mind. The heart of the matter, the underlying rhythm, as it were, is that I love you. True as a badger's stripes, mad as a March hare, and deep as a turnip'n'tater'n'beetroot pie. Would you..." He faltered for a moment, and her heart seized.

He's not,_ she realized, doing her level best to maintain the stoic thingness of her face. _Well, why would he? You're just an ugly slip of an LPer. Only an officer by tradition, hardly any claim to fame for yourself. Pish, Silverflicker, you moon-eyed louse! No other chap's given you more than a tumble in the dark of the supply shed, wot? Why would a handsome, successful, talented one want you for keeps?__

"Sorry," he apologized with a cough. Well, he was being polite about breaking her heart, at least. Maybe she could feign anger. He seemed to like it when she was a bit severe with him. "Rather forgot to breathe there for a moment. Ehem... Would you marry me, Mary?"

In answer, she leapt from her chair, pinned him to the ground beneath her, and then snogged him until he had apologized quite profusely for having left her in the lurch there for a moment.

Jolly unsporting all the novels ended there, of course. They did a rotten job of preparing the lovelorn gel for After the Sunset.

"Mary?"

Paws clenched to fists with claws stabbing into the pads, Mary Hollyhocks turned on her heel to face Colonel Cheesewright Sharpe. Her eyes burned and leaked like squashed cherries, the hard pit located somewhere in her throat clogging all hope of coherent vocalization. Her chest heaved, her ears drooped, and her nose dribbled like a leveret with a bottle of carrot juice.

Cheesewright charged over, steam billowing from his nostrils as he snatched her shoulders and pulled her closer. "What's he done, Mary? What's that thrice-be-damned blighter done to you? I'll have him flogged! No... no, I'll jolly well flog him myself, the prancing, pushy, polygamous bounder! Or maybe I should clip his claws to the quick and douse him in lemon juice? Or hang him up by his ears? Make him shave off all his fur with a rusted razor? Set his footpaws in a tub of pike? Hah! That'd teach the–"

"Cheesy!" she managed to choke out, scrubbing a paw across her face. "Get ahold of yourself, sah! _Fjord's_ not the one who did anything."

"Eh? Then... why...?" The colonel wriggled a paw at her, and the lady hare took the opportunity to step back, ducking out from under his paws.

"I left him, Cheesy." Mary held up her paw for emphasis. A thin band of fur had worn away where she'd kept the little gold ring.

_But it will grow back,_ a voice assured her. _Not the same as before... but maybe... maybe..._

She tried to hold back the sob that clawed its way up her throat and out for the world at large to sneer at, but only managed to bite her tongue. She felt Cheesewright's arms around her a moment later and, against the stern warning of her brain that it was a _very_ bad idea to encourage him, her body reacted, clutching his uniform and turning her face into his chest.

_Pathetic, Silverflicker. Utterly so, wot?_

"Shh... there, there, Mary," Cheesewright soothed, stroking her ears. "You did the right thing. The very bravest thing a gel can do in such dire circs." The colonel's voice grew hard again. "But wot did I tell you, eh? Not a noble bone in that rotter's body. I expect the wastrel's been having you on from the start. Should've had the blister thrown out Salamandastron when I had the chance. I'm sorry, Mary. I could've spared you all this, set you up with a proper chap like you deserve."

She detected a thingness in his voice, but he made no move save to pet her and mutter brotherly endearments and fatherly threats. After a few minutes, the haremaid felt sure enough to stand on her own two footpaws again and pulled away from Cheesewright. He tensed, gripping her tighter, then relaxed after a moment.

"Thank you, Cheesy. I think I needed that rather more than I thought."

"Not a problem, my dear," he replied, maw twisted into a frown. "Really, though, I'd be happy to knock Hollyhocks about for good measure after wot he's put you through."

Mary shook her head, drawing in a deep breath and squaring her shoulders. "No, Cheesy. Mustn't stoop to that sort of petty revenge."

"Oh... well, yes. Quite right."

"I'm worried about him, though. And don't make that face. I was married to the blighter. Just because he's an unfaithful cad doesn't mean I shouldn't worry about a fellow creature. You know he couldn't have murdered a beast."

"It seems unlikely," Cheesewright agreed, pulling out what Fjord had once called his 'taxidermied toad' face. "The bally poltroon makes little old mousemums look like murderous lunatics by comparison." The colonel shook his head, and his brow furrowed. "They'll be interrogating the entire lot sometime today or tomorrow. I'll let the Skipper and Forerat know he has all the fortitude and guile of a landed haddock, wot?"

As he was turning to fulfill this promise, Mary clasped his paw and pulled him into a hug. "Thank you, Cheesy. Really and truly. Thank you."

Maybe there was something yet to these romance novels where the hero came swooping in to save the heroine from the basest of scoundrels.

_"Oh, thank you, Mary!" Fjord cried once he'd regained his breath, righting both of them and sweeping her into a spin. "Hahah! Oh, the Fates must exist! You saying yes to a chap like me!" He pulled her in close and kissed her gently, just a chaste press of his lips to hers. Then, they began to sway, Fjord giving over complete control as she directed them in lazy circles around the table._

"Pardon me, good sah," Mary murmured, nuzzling into his neck, "But aren't you supposed to be leading?"

He had his mouth resting against her head, and she felt him smile. "I rather prefer matters as they are, my darling."

She thought for a moment, pulling back and forcing him to follow. "Yes." She sighed and pressed against him once more. "Me, too."

Then again, maybe not.


	81. Someone Else's Story

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 80. Someone Else's Story  
**

_by Dominic_

"-eeeeeeeeeeee-"

Dominic's thoughts buzzed about his head louder than that nest of hornets Darron had thrown at the neighbors that one time. Served them right for keeping bees.

"-_eeeeeeeeee_-"

He tried to focus. He had to remember.

_Juniper. I know him? Knew him? As friends? I was friends... with a woodlander? _Am_ friends? Yet... why doesn't Ella act like she knows him? Was he from Walkin's? And he knows I... killed? I killed somebeast... No, no, I didn't... But he was trying to take Ella. I don't know-_

"Ella, sweetie? Could you, maybe just for a moment-"

"_EEEEEEEE_!"

Ella's cries regarded his feeble interruption like a debutante staring down a nervous butler-his was a mumble that could not hope to overcome. Dominic was sure he could feel the pus sinuses under his fur beginning to boil as her pitch rose ever higher.

"Dom..." Juniper sighed. He was drowned out by shouting from down the hall.

"Shut that fates-bedamned wastrel-"

"A good fist or a caning-"

"The bally bars are cracking-"

"**Quiet!**"

The voice that bellowed from the stair well was granted its wish. Save for Ella's trembling sniffled, the prison block fell into harrowing silence.

Dominic retreated to the corner, huddling over Ella. He regarded the gloomy passage beyond the bars. Something was coming, scraping the stones with skeletal taps. It wasn't just the stones, either-his spine felt each deathly noise as if somebeast were right behind him, breathing against his neck...

The figure's shadow crept along the wall, its raspy voice preceding it.

"What is the substance of this? A-_ha_! I should have known. Weasels! Look, you-I'll not have you inciting a riot in this jail! This is an orderly facility, and you'll obey the Law within these confines! I'll not have you stinking up the air with-"

"Cawonnawoof!"

The shadow moved forward. Hopped, really. Dominic straightened. It was... not a finch...

"Come on, Warden, give it a rest," somebeast from down the hall called out. "It's finally quiet for once, and you have to go and rile everyone again?"

The dipper ignored the heckler and took another hop forward, eyeing Ella. "_What_ did she say?"

Dominic was silent for a moment, then answered, his tone flat. "Caw on a roof. Birdy pie."

"Cawonnawoof! Cawonnawoof! Birdy in my mouf!"

"Ella, no. He's a lawbird. You can't eat him. Probably all full of mites." The weasel shuddered. "And badges."

"Birdy in mphnggg!"

Dominic muzzled her with a paw, grinning apologetically at the dipper. It came out more as a grimace. It immediately dropped to a frown.

"Ella, don't bite, I have leprosy..."

Still she gnawed, tiny milkteeth ripping away at his pawpad as she tugged at the manacles on his wrist.

"Leprosy," the Warden scoffed.

"And amnesia," Juniper offered helpfully.

"I do not!" Dominic hissed. The otter turned to the dipper and shrugged.

"See? He's already forgotten he has it."

"Amnesia..." The Warden cocked his head. "This is a serious matter. Your trial is being arranged as we speak, Mr. Wright. If there is any doubt-"

"Trial?" Dominic's voice rose to a squeak. "But I didn't do anything!"

Juniper waggled his brow at the Warden.

"I have heard such protestations every day of my job," the Warden said primly. "But never have I had to discern between more than a common criminal's lie and an innocent's final plea! This complicates matters. The trial is compromised!" He began pacing, hopping up and down the hallway in front of the cell. "We'll need a witness-somebeast close, who can confirm or deny the validity of your statements..."

"Faye," Dominic said immediately.

"I will fetch them. Where do they reside?"

"It's a hamlet, south of Redwall City. Between here and Veil. There's only a few houses. Not the one with the bee hives. Faye Wright. My sister-in-law."

"Faaaaye," Ella chimed, having nosed her way out of Dominic's paws. "Poppy, wan' Faye milk."

Dominic ignored her. "If she's not there... she might be looking for me in Veil Village. There's a tavern there, Walkin's. I work there. Walkin could vouch for me, too."

The warden regarded him for a long moment. Dominic searched the dipper's eyes, and found himself baffled. Bird expressions were too hard for him.

"Are you going to, or not?" Dominic snapped.

"In due time." The bird raised a wing to forestall a reply. "And I'd best hear nothing about you while I'm gone."

"Just keep your damn guards from letting insane otters in to break my neck. The only ruckus I'll cause is dying in this hole."

Juniper held his bandaged paws up. "Wasn't me! I'm his best friend!"

"Oh, please! You're a vagrant troupe actor! I've never met you before in my life!"

Juniper again pulled a long face on the Warden. The dipper shook his head and took his leave without another word.

Ella pulled out of her father's arms and raced to the bars, sticking her nose between them to make a face at the vanishing bird. "Coswap!"

Juniper applauded.

Dominic groaned.

"Oh, wick it all."

"He's not a cod, though. He's a dipper."

"It's not that," Dominic said. "I forgot to ask when we're being fed next."

"Supper hoppered bye-bye," Ella sighed.

-

"Eeeeeeeee-"

The respite had lasted all of two minutes.

"-_eeeeeeeee_-"

"I swear to Vulpuz, weasel, if she doesn't shut up..."

Dominic was cradling Ella right-side down, her front facing the floor. It kept the claws away from his face, and directed the ear-splitting keen away from him like a tympanic-tearing weapon of destruction. He nuzzled her neck with his cheek.

"Ella, Ella, what do you need? What can poppy get you?"

The other prisoners had their own suggestions.

"Sleep!"

"Food!"

"A smack!"

The weasel closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. "Oh, shut up, you badger-loving... hooligans!"

An irate female voice called out from the next cell over. "Sing to her, you idiot!"

"I don't see how that will help any!"

"Sing her to sleep," Juniper said. "Like a lullaby."

"To sleep?" Dominic nearly shouted. "How in hellgates is singing supposed to put her to sleep?"

"Better'n you shouting your fool head off!" the female voice barked.

Juniper clapped. "Come on, Dom, surely you remember a song or two."

"I do, but..." Dominic blushed. "But... but I don't know-I mean, nothing for kits... Just tavern songs."

"Sounds like a good idea to me!" Another prisoner called out gleefully.

Juniper beamed a dimpled wasp's nest of a smile, all hidden trouble. "Yes! _Tip O'er the Maid_! You know the one, from _The Bawdy Lair_. Come on, you all know that one!"

"Aye!"

"Tip 'er!"

One of their closest neighbours seemed uneasy. "Now, now, I don't think that's right, wot..."

"Oh, it's just a bit of fun!" The otter waved his paws in time, clasped together, looking as if he was swinging a tiny cudgel about. Dominic _hoped_ that's what he was imagining...

"Oh, I was in the tavern of old McFinnerty Guff  
When in waltzed in her daughter, and she was in the-"

"-dress!" Dominic interjected, eyes popping wild. The chorus paused at his outburst. "_She was in a dress,_" he hissed.

"'T'aint the words."

"He's right, you can't go mucking about with the rhyme..."

"Shewasinnadress." Despite Dominic's strained reply, Ella had quieted down when everyone was singing. He cleared his throat. "Erm... She knelt down at my table and offered me a kiss..."

"That's it, lad!" They joined back in.

"She knelt down at my table, and offered me a kiss.  
Instead I grabbed a paw o'-"

"-beets-"

"-and promised her this:"

"Come 'way with me dear Molly, come 'way with me dear bint  
Come 'way with me my jolly and I'll give you-"

"-a flint!"

Then Juniper began improvising, much to Ella's glee. She had begun to dance, just as Dominic had feared. At least, he hoped it was dancing. It looked an awful lot like that time he'd tried monkshood-flailing like your paws were aiming at five different flies. He was only relieved that she wasn't wardancing... yet.

"Oh, you 'ave got the flint, dear, and I've me tinder here,  
You rub it out, and see those sparks a-flying from yore-"

"-_ear!_"

"Our heat did 'tract attention from other boilin' males  
So she did offer to-–"

"-play _d-darts_-"

"-and take 'em without fail."

"So now there goes sweet Molly, the sweetest weasel lass  
I may be burned, but least I got myself-"

"-a full wineglass!"

Both mustelids faced each other, panting. Juniper still had a manic grin splitting his mug. "Wonderful! Such mastery of-such wordplay-such... you sing good."

Dominic took a deep breath and closed his eyes. It was over, now. It was finally... over.

Ella twirled over and slapped her paws down on his lap.

"Sing again, Poppy!"

"_Ella, go to _sleep!"

-

Two ballads later, each progressively naughtier than the last (at some point, graveyards had come into play), Ella had finally worn herself out. She lay passed out across Dominic's lap. Her little legs still twitched-dreaming, perhaps, of a continued dance.

Some of the prisoners continued singing, skipping back to the first song, using the original lyrics now that Dominic was no longer trying to censor them for Ella's sake.

"What is this? I'll not be having your shameful bawderies sully these halls!"

The Warden's voice carried over the fifteenth refrain, interrupting out a particularly insightful description of Molly's gentle zheeps. Dominic had been enjoying the tune, but was thankful for the dipper's return.

Slipping Ella off his lap, he nervously approached the bars.

"Did you find her? Is she here? Faye?" He called out, pushing his bruised face against the bars to get a glimpse at the stairwell. "Faye!"

"Cease that, weasel," the Warden said, puffing himself. "No, I did not. I checked all the houses, even the one with the bees, and there is no Faye Wright in residence."

Dominic shot away from the bars as if Juniper had been rubbing his pawsocks all over a carpet and suddenly decided to give him a hug. He collapsed on the bench.

But... no. This didn't mean she wasn't-he _knew_ she was.

"You looked in Veil, right? You asked around?"

"I didn't think it was necessary," the dipper said, preening smugly. "You see, I went to Walkin's tavern..."

"Yes?"

"And I asked for Walkin-he's the old stoat?"

"Yes!"

"And I asked him if a Dominic Wright works here, and he said-"

"_What?_ Tell me!"

Shooting him a glare, the dipper paused for effect.

"'Nope.'"

Dominic stared. "'Nope'?"

The Warden nodded. "'Nope.' As it turns out, Mr. Wright, you are a liar and a scoundrel, and I shall not waste my or the Law's time flying about the countryside in search of somebeast to prove me otherwise. The trial will begin shortly, so hope to your precious Vulpuz that you don't bugger things up for yourself, weasel. Skipper will be by shortly to have words with you."

"Wait! Wait. You have to believe me!" Dominic's claws dug into the wooden bench. "Tristram. The Sentinels. They're in Rillrock! They promised me-"

"The Sentinels?" Again, the Warden scoffed. "Fairy-tales, weasel! Kits' bedtime stories! There is not, and never was, any group called the Sentinels. Twenty seasons I've heard rumours, and not a hair or whisker of truth in the lot of them! You insult me."

"They're real!" Dominic stamped his footpaw. "They're in Rillrock!"

"Rillrock is a backwater community of paranoid farmers and delusional radicals who refuse to embrace the innovations of proper society. No Law, no currency, and they think that will solve all Mossflower's problems. Of course if you were there, they would tell you the Sentinels are real, and that they themselves are part of it. Pull your head out from under your tail, Mr. Wright-if you cannot accept the truth..."

Leaving it at that, the bird huffed off, beak clenched.

The prison block was silent for some time. Then a tottering voice crept down the hall.

"Another verse, lads and lasses? _Oh, her toeclaws were so lovely, they tickled at my thighs_-"

"I'm not a liar," Dominic growled to his cellmate.

"I know you're not," Juniper said. He came over and put a bandaged paw on the weasel's shoulder. Dominic winced, even at the soft touch. "You've always told the truth. You're a good beast, Dom. Apart from the murdering, that is."

"-_when her father came in, awoken by her sighs_-"

"I didn't kill anyone!"

"The thing about amnesia isn't just that you forget. Your mind has to fill in the gaps. You don't remember killing anyone, so instead you remember _not_ killing anyone. But that's not really what happened. You did kill that otter. You did kill the Abbess. And you're filling it in with stories to explain everything away, the way you'd like it to go. What I don't understand, Dom... is why you would want to forget me?"

"-_picked glass out of my pawpads, she licked them bare and clean_-"

"Stoppit... just stoppit..."

"Not until you remember me, Dom. Our friendship-was it not important enough to you?"

"I don't choose what to forget!" Dominic snapped. Ella rustled. He lowered his voice. "I didn't decide to re-write my life. I can't think of why I would want to forget you."

"-_townsfolk did gasp and faint, for had never so obscene_-"

"You forgot why you wanted to forget." Juniper smiled sadly. "I can't say, Dom. I only remember what I remember. I can't read your thoughts for you. I can see that trying to remind you is getting us nowhere. What bothers me the most isn't that you forgot, but that you chose to replace your memories with something else. So tell me, Dom-what wonderful life did you create for yourself?"

"-_tra-la-la, oh! From my bouncing gap-toothed queen!_-"

Dominic said nothing.

Walkin was real. The neighbour's bees were real. The Warden had confirmed that. There were _parts_ that were real. But was Darron real? Were their parents? Was their uncle? Was Lily? Was Faye? Was Vikraja? Was Shandi, and Demitri, and Tristram? Was Belette, and Rod, and Cones, and Oakey, and Hannah? And if none of this had happened-if there were no Sentinels, then there was no one to have killed Darron. Darron was still alive, then. But if he wasn't at home-if he hadn't married Faye...

The only link to the past as hew knew it was Ella. A two-year-old kit who still believed in monsters under the crib, who woke from her dreams talking about mouse warriors as if the conversations she had in her mind were as real as the ones she had with her father. Had he likewise filled her head with fairy-tales? Was Faye just a story he'd told her one night?

And if this was the life he'd given himself... Then just how buggered up was he, to think it was better than anything he might have had before?

"Juniper... tell me who I am."

"-_verse seventeen, mates! Come on, all together now! A-one, a-two..._"

"Enough o' that!" a new voice bellowed. If there was a voice that was more commanding than the Warden's, it was this one. The otter padded into view. Dominic found himself quailing away once again. He almost sort of recognised this one.

The otter had a list in his paws. He looked at it, then looked up at Dominic and Juniper. His glance ignored Ella.

"Dominic Wright? Juniper Dantor?"

"Yes?"

"That's me!"

"I'm the Skipper o' Otters. Says 'ere yer cellmate was Shandi Fen."

"Some guards took her," Dominic said. "Was she let go?"

"'Fraid she's passed away, lads," the otter said. Dominic closed his eyes.

"It's just me..."

"What's that?"

It was a struggle to open his eyes again, to look the otter in the face-either one. Shrugging, Skipper beckoned a guard to unlock the cell.

"Mr. Wright, come with us. We'd like t' speak t' ye privately 'fore the trial."

Dominic stood. He picked up Ella. She bubbled, then fell back asleep with her nose tucked under his arm.

"I'm not leaving her," he said.

Skipper flipped through his notes. "Wasn't goin' t' suggest it," he said.

Dominic nodded goodbye at Juniper. "Will you tell me later?"

"I'll tell you everything, Dom."

"Thank... thank you."

Skipper led him away. Dominic was too tired and hungry to care or pay attention to where he was going. One moment there were halls, and the next, he was sitting in a chair in a room. The Skipper sat across from him, paws resting flat on the table. A rat stood in the corner, in the shadows.

"Is this real?" Dominic asked, his voice dulled.

"I c'n assure ye, Mr. Wright, this is entirely real. We 'ave some questions fer ye. C'n ye tell us where ye were on the night o' the celebration?"

Dominic shook his head.

"Answer the question, Mr. Wright."

"I can't," he said.

Skipper tilted his head back. "An' why's that?"

"Because none of it happened. Everything I remember is a lie. I have amnesia."

Skipper sighed. He rubbed his forehead with his paws, then dropped them, letting his face melt until they fell back to the table.

"Couldn't just 'ave one straightforward talk, o' course..."


	82. En Passant

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 81. En Passant  
**

_by Daskin_

_As he knelt by the grave of his mother and father  
the taste of dill, or tarragon-  
he could barely tell one from the other-_

filled his mouth. It seemed as if he might smother.  
Why should he be stricken  
with grief, not for his mother and father…  
  
-"Milkweed and Monarch," Paul Muldoon

###

Snow fell over the Northlands, descending in glittering ice-sharp flakes, a thousand thousand tiny diamonds, cold and precious as those at his mother's throat, strung in golden lace. He could call this image of her to mind, recollection perfect, down to the warmth of sunlight through a window and the smell of roses and of ink… this careful—not quite image—overpowered any other image of his mother, and indeed he couldn't recall any other single moment except in smoky fragments, lacy jags of fur and flesh and feeling.

Daskin knew he was dreaming, of course. This spectral image of his mother did not hold to the rigid logic of reality; he could see and smell her, hear her voice (its careful melody rippled in his ear, but all sense dissolved if he tried to focus—there were no words to hear) and all this frozen grace he perceived in one static moment, dizzying in its brevity and in its endurance.

And then he awoke. And for the day, he forgot.

###

"Daskin, wake up, we need to leave." Corrigan's voice betrayed no emotion but the tension of urgency. "Up. Now."

"Hmmm?"

"We're under attack, time to get out."

The rest of the morning passed in flashes; Corrigan pulled him by the sleeve to a side exit that had been unguarded, and they were gone. Corrigan marched furiously onward, the grown ferret's long strides covering enough distance that Daskin had to jog alongside him, unable to speak, instead taking quick, huffing breaths. Veil Village was soon but a cluster of buildings on the horizon.

The silence was perfect, the sound of breathing and their footfalls, rhythmic and meditative. Daskin kept his eyes forward as best he could, controlling his gaze and his thoughts with strength born of intense drilling in politeness, but he nevertheless felt himself compelled to watch the ferret walking alongside him. Corrigan's movements were rigid, the lines of his back and his limbs straight and joined at crystal-sharp angles. A sword hung at his side, and even resting there as Corrigan walked, it was a natural addition to his body, a continuation of the theme of rigid edges. The ferret's gait and posture accounted for its presence.

Eventually, Daskin was the first to speak. "Where are we going." It wasn't quite a question. He didn't quite dare, still frightened a bit by their sudden departure, and cowed as always by Corrigan's martial manner.

"Where we would've gone anyway." This answer fell on Daskin's ears like the closing of a mausoleum door, oppressive and final. There was a long pause. They passed by a stand of trees, a creek, a meadow covered in tiny blue flowers, connected by a filigree of green stems.

"We need to warn the others that the tavern has been compromised. And kindly refrain from fretting, I will see to your safety directly."

These words were careful, measured. Affectionless. Daskin didn't notice, or didn't notice that he noticed.

"What—"

_What's going on? Where are you taking me? Why were these kits taken prisoner, why…_

Daskin smothered the questions. If it were important for him to know, he would be told. If it would benefit him to not know, then he would not be told. He knew this lesson well; it had been instilled in him early. Corrigan was trustworthy. He knew that, too. He could not, would not, interfere. Daskin was not a player in this game, and so the pieces were not his to move.

_"Watch, and be silent."_

His mother's voice came to him unprompted; Daskin couldn't quite remember when (if?) he'd heard her say that, but it seemed appropriate. Certainly the sentiment could be hers.

"We're going to Kotir, the old fortress buried near Redwall Abbey. We have friends there. Such as they are." The slightly weary tone of this last statement did not escape Daskin's notice.

The pair journeyed on in their careful silence.

###

A cluster of boulders stood in the center of the broad meadow, not tall enough to be imposing but still oddly inconsistent with the flat and open plain.

"Under here," Corrigan said, pointing to a gap between two stones that was barely broader than Daskin's shoulders and not as high as his knees. The crevice was black—no sign existed that this was anything more than a standard miniscule cave, suitable for spiders, perhaps, but certainly not for a ferret. Daskin crouched, and looked inside, but saw nothing.

"We were going to take—however many—beasts through here?"

"Of course not. There is another way through, but this is faster and safer." Corrigan prodded Daskin with a footpaw. "Go on."

Daskin unfastened his cloak, let its emerald folds slip from his shoulders. "Can you put this through after me?"

Corrigan nodded, and Daskin sat on the damp gearth, shoving both footpaws under the rock. He felt ground for a few inches, but then there was a sudden drop; he hooked his paws under it and pulled himself through into moldy-smelling shadow. His shoulders caught, but a moment of wriggling later, they sprung free and his entire body, now with nothing holding it above ground, slid several feet downward—Daskin stumbled in the dim as his footpaws found a crooked, muddy floor.

Then, all light disappeared in a whoosh of air and fabric. His cloak. Daskin felt bizarrely prim as he refastened it where nobeast could see. He finished, and there was a series of thumps and muffled curses beside him as Corrigan followed through the cave. The passage in which they stood was tall enough for Daskin but not the other ferret, and so Corrigan led the way hunched over, pressing on into further darkness, away from even the scant illumination of the entrance.

Shortly, the narrow tunnel broadened, and they emerged into a chamber lit by a single sputtering lantern overhead that supplied more a suggestion of light than any true illumination—its effect merely drawing outlines of walls and a ceiling onto the darkness.

"Left from here is a tunnel to Redwall Abbey." Corrigan pointed down one corridor, and then led Daskin through another which soon pitched sharply downward, deeper under the earth.

In the dark, Daskin tripped over something soft, jarring his jaw and teeth as he hit the floor. "Ouch!"

"Daskin?"

"I'm fine. But…" Daskin squinted. He saw an outline of arms, legs—a pair of skeletons sat against the wall, and he'd tripped over a stray ankle. Daskin shuddered, willing himself to not be sick. They were about the right stature to be ferrets, too, and he could envision himself far too easily becoming lost in the dark, reduced to chalky bones, contorted against a dirt wall.

"Just a bit further, come along."

Corrigan reached out, and Daskin grasped the larger ferret's paw as they hurried through tunnels, choosing at apparent random between various branchings of the pathways, always gradually descending, until at long last they reached a heavy oaken door.

"We're here. Welcome to Kotir, Master Stirling." Corrigan swung the door wide open.

The room was an off-kilter version of any noble manor—the walls and ceiling were composed of huge sandstone blocks, now a disturbing parody of Redwall Abbey's Great Hall; beasts scampered to and fro, stumbling over the uneven brick of the ruined floor. Great chunks of broken stone were scattered everywhere.

Kotir was a broken skeleton of a fortress, darkness punctuated by wall-mounted torches and rare lanterns; the air was stagnant, foul with the smell of burning and the myriad stenches of underground life.

"We have quarters… well, one may call it 'upstairs'."

Daskin glanced all around the dark room, which called to mind not just the bustling Great Hall at Redwall Abbey, which he had seen some—how many escaped him—days ago… but also a hellish inversion of Stirling Manor, the icy, aerial grace of his home replaced by shadow and fire, smooth lines, bright windows, fabric replaced by jutting boulders, cracks, and grime.

He had stepped, inevitably and unconsciously, from light to dark—as on a chess board, it seemed, there was no room between the extremes. The beautiful dream from which Corrigan had awoken him that morning came back in fragments, the chilly grace of his mother at the Manor juxtaposed, here, with Corrigan's iron posture and the ruins of a castle a hundred seasons old.

Funny, that these two places, these two times which admitted little comparison _were_ the same—they were Stirling places, his home, his to rule (in name, if not in flesh).

Daskin followed Corrigan up a rickety stairwell, and into a bedroom.

"This is yours, for the time being. I'll send a courier to your parents, as it would not be appropriate to merely send you back to the Manor, things being… what they are." Corrigan mostly looked distracted. "Anyhow. We need instructions."

Daskin nodded, and Corrigan, satisfied that he was dismissed, vanished into the hallway. He locked the door behind him.

Daskin lay on the narrow bed, staring blankly at the crooked ceiling. _This is not my home, I couldn't stay here with just Corrigan… I need my…_

He thought of his mother, austere in life as in dream. His father, acid-eyed but ineffectual... was that the end to his thought?

_I need my parents._

Not… quite. That white world was as smothering as this black one, its rigidity as terrifying as the nauseating angles of Kotir's walls and ceilings, its lace and glass no less disturbing than broken stone.

Daskin knew that was how the game was played. All white, all black, and nothing in between. There was no room for "maybe," or "somewhat," but all the same…

He knew that he had walked in the space between, in meadows and caves, in woods, and in a terrifying plunge into a frozen river.

_Hector. Juniper…_

"Where are you?" he whispered.

The fortress did not answer, but he did know there was a passage to Redwall Abbey. If he could remember the way.


	83. Anatomy of a Murder

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 82. Anatomy of a Murder  
**

_by Aya  
_

_If I never hear another bawdy tune being murdered by a pair of crazed, caged mustelids, maybe I'll be able to sleep with my eyes closed again. Maybe. Someday._

It had been a relief when the squalling and crooning had finally ceased. Aya looked over at her cellmate sitting against the back wall, his ears drooping and his whiskers limp in dejection.

"You should take this back," she said quietly, holding out the ring that Fjord's wife had tossed her way earlier. "It's not like it's going to make it less real if I'm the one holding it."

Fjord shook his head morosely, and buried his head in his crossed arms. Aya shrugged, and threaded the ring on a piece of straw in the corner before tying it securely into her tunic and settling down to get what sleep she could. She was awakened all too soon by the butt of a pike prodding at her shoulder.

"Time to rise and shine, Miss Congeniality," the more vocal of the pair of guards said, sarcasm dripping from his whiskers.

The brief march from the dankness of the holding cells to the Abbey dormitory had been followed by a time best described as torturous. Aya might not have been the most fastidious of beasts by nature, but she had quickly adapted to maintaining the scrupulous cleanliness required when preparing food for the Abbey denizens.

But this... there had to be few things more undignified than being on the receiving end of a sponge bath. At least, Aya fervently hoped so, given the glee with which humiliations were being dished out to the murder suspects. She'd even heard a rumor that one of the other suspects had succumbed during interrogation.

_Natural causes? That's about as likely as my being elected Abbess at tonight's little get-together! I know I've got nothing to worry about, but why are they wasting their bloody time on me? At least I'll be speaking for myself -no fool beast is going to stand up and put words in my mouth!_

None of the beasts she'd come in contact with so far had evinced any desire to hear her side of the story. She'd even been denied an explanation of what had happened in her absence to shift public perception of her from pursuer to suspect. The guards had all said the same thing: "Save your breath for the trial."

Well, and then there was the one who'd added "And shut your mouth before that kit from the other cell learns something else new, wot?" but Aya's baleful glare had silenced any further helpful advice. In any case, judging from the wailed and lisped curses that had echoed amongst the cells the preceding night, the kit hardly needed any instruction _she_ could lend in that area.

As the Long Patrol hares escorted her from the dormitory to Cavern Hole, Aya caught a glimpse of beasts lined up to enter the large meeting space. According to her guides, it was the only area spacious enough to hold the trial participants and the throngs of curious onlookers, while still catering to the "mighty peculiar tastes of the judge, eh?"

A murmur ran through the crowd, and swelled to a clamor as the Redwallers and vermin realized she was one of the suspects. Aya cocked her head and narrowed her eyes at a particularly rude paw gesture made by a runty-looking vole, but was whisked inside before anything further could take place.

The flickering torches revealed dozens of benches lined up and facing a central clearing, with a solitary chair atop a raised podium. Aya was first in the docket, for no other reason than the initial letter of her name. As she was led to the clearing, a long bench at the edge of the clearing revealed a variety of beasts, some with all-too-familiar faces.

"Good luck, Ms. Aya!" Fjord greeted her, the forced joviality of his voice belying the furrows of worry on his brow. " I say! If you pull through, I'll buy you some flour to make some of those _delicious_ scones you like to chuck about, wot?"

"Rabbit, you've never truly tasted them. If I get out of this, you'll be weeping as you eat them, I promise," Aya replied, an ambiguous smile on her face. It was the best retort she could manage under the weight of hundreds of inquisitive eyes attempting to pierce to her soul and read "Guilty" writ there, emblazoned in a fiery script no doubt. Cecil, she noticed, was assiduously averting his eyes as she passed by, while that bloody otter was grinning at her. Aya still hadn't forgotten his little stunt underwater.

The opening formalities passed by in a blur as the squirrel sat down, stood up, and nodded disinterestedly at the sudden introduction of some bat who would be presiding over the trial. Aya then blinked in surprise as the bat suddenly perched upside-down so that her wrinkled and leathery visage hung uncomfortably just out of Aya's peripheral vision, but was distracted by the stick-legged ball of feathers who was insisting that she promise to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the tr-

"That's what I've been trying to do this whole time, you bird-brain!" Aya muttered just loudly enough to see the Bailiff's tail quiver in indignation. Aloud, she swore her oath and sat back down, squirming a bit to get her tail in a more comfortable position as the prosecutors conferred. She was not surprised to see the rat - Forerat Lazulite or Leap or something- approach; it would have been quite inflammatory if she, a woodlander, had been unsuccessfully prosecuted by a woodlander. Of course, there were some who would be unhappy with the current set-up as well, but Skipper had obviously decided to keep himself from engendering any personal ire.

It didn't matter much either way to Aya, as she found herself being asked in rapid succession how she knew the late Abbess, whether they had gotten along, and what she had been doing the night of the feast.

"We beat the snot out of each other as kits, I hated her guts, and I was working my tail off, if it's any of your damn business," had been her increasingly annoyed replies. This led to some hoots of indignation from the audience, but from the hanging judge came a sternly-worded but gently-echoed command to behave in a civil manner and answer the questions.

"Fine," Aya replied, "just ask me some sensible questions and give me a chance to answer and you'll see if I can be civil or not."

"Very well then, Miss Aya," Lazuleep replied. He turned slightly, the better to address the audience while still directing his comments toward the squirrel. "Allow me to rephrase: did the kit-hood conflict between yourself and the late Abbess cause any difficulties between the two of you when you met again at Redwall?"

"Yes," Aya replied dryly, "one could say it did."

There was a pause, during which Aya gazed stolidly at the rat, who smiled back benignly.

"Would you care to elaborate, Miss Aya, as to what these difficulties were?"

"I needed a job and a place to stay. She didn't want to let me work in the kitchens. It was a stand-off, but it's a good thing they needed the help or she'd have turned me out into the cold," Aya replied, bitterness evident in her tone.

"So you had a good reason, then, to feel that she still harbored a grudge against you?" the prosecutor inquired.

"Anybeast who saw how she treated me would've been able to tell that, even if they were as blind as a bat -no offense, your Honour," Aya added hastily. She had nothing against the judge, after all -it was just this rat smirking in front of her who was arousing her ire. "I did my job, didn't cause any trouble, and still she kept trying to find some reason to send me away. Bloody hag."

A hue and cry broke out in earnest, quelled only by the strident cries of the Warden-Bailiff as he fluttered about shouting for order.

"Careful, Miss Aya," Judge Duskwatcher cautioned again, "I will not indulge you in any more of these outburts of unseemly language. Remember, there are young-beasts present!"

Forerat Lazuleep bowed to the judge, then turned and walked slowly a few steps away from Aya, his whiskers twitching slightly, before he turned briskly on one footpaw and faced her again. She appreciated the brief chance to catch her breath, even if she didn't appreciate the extended view of the rat's ugly, bare tail.

"Miss Aya," Lazuleep began softly, "it must have indeed been obvious that the late Abbess, despite her good qualities, did have one, unfortunate character flaw when it came to her treatment of you. In fact, her attempts might very well have led to your being thrown out of the Abbey, at the mercy of the elements." The rat paused, allowing his words to sink in, and resumed when Aya nodded.

"Did it ever occur to you, Miss Aya, that it might be better for you if you took matters into your own paws?"

"I can't say that it didn't," Aya admitted grudgingly.

"And did you feel that, in all the well-wishing and good cheer of the feast, her decidedly cold treatment of you in public was just one more in a long line of humiliations?"

"I did," Aya replied, biting her tongue on any further words with a sideways glance up at the judge.

"And then, Miss Aya," Forerat Lazuleep said, his voice dropping so that those in the nearest rows strained to hear even as the beasts behind pestered them with whispers of inquiry, "did it occur to you that the hubbub and commotion of the feast would provide the perfect cover for your seizing an opportunity to pay Abbess Dittany back for how she treated you?"

The squirrel drew herself upright, the seemingly meandering path of the prosecutor's questions now as clear as a beet-sugar sucking candy.

"Look here," Aya replied, her eyes flashing, "I never made any secret that I detested the Abbess. I didn't go slinking about spreading rumours behind her back, and I didn't spit in her face when she smiled sweetly and tried to revoke what charity I was given. And maybe, if I'd have had a chance, I'd have given her a taste of the old times, just so she remembered that it wasn't right to treat beasts the way she did me. But I take my work very seriously -ask anybeast in the kitchens!- and I spent that entire evening and most of the morning either cooking, serving, or cleaning up. The one break I took, I spent watching that flop-eared fancy dancer -" here she pointed at Fjord "-flirting with his whip, and when Hellgates opened and the bell-tower fell I certainly wasn't hiding in some dark corner or fleeing the outcome of my deeds!"

"Yes, that may be so," Lazuleep said as he stroked his whiskers, "but what I asked you, Miss Aya, is whether you would have seized the chance if given the opportunity. And it sounded to me like you just said that yes, you would have."

"I did nothing of the sort, you daft rat!" Aya burst out, all restraint gone. "I'd have paddled the birchy hag to within an inch of her tail and left sea-salt in her bed after, but there's some lines I just won't cross and murdering a beast's one of them! And I'd like to know why you're wasting your fool time on me when there's plenty as-"

"That's quite enough, Miss Aya," the judge said as she motioned with a velveteen wing, "Bailiff, if you would please remove her to the cells."

"Aye, you do that, and maybe I'll be able to get a decent nap in," the squirrel retorted.

Aya was firmly gripped between a pair of sturdy hares and escorted away, her jaw set and her footpaws sometimes leaving the packed dirt as she struggled to move under her own volution even as a chorus of boos and cries of "Have you no shame?" poured down around her.

"Oh, get over yourselves," she snapped in exasperation.


	84. Forsleuth

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 83. Forsleuth  
**

_by Fjord  
_

_She followed us here, the mad old charlatan!_

Throughout Aya's trial, Fjord found himself hard-pressed to mind the squirrelmaid and her plight. He fixed his gaze on the prophet, Duskwatcher, but the bat's wrinkly face betrayed no emotion, and he found himself cowed before he could even begin to point and shout accusingly.

_Wot's she doing at Redwall?_ he wondered. Then, it came to him. _Checking up on the progress of her little fantasy... Or come to fulfill it._ The hairs on the nape of his neck stood up as he recalled her parting words.

_"And... why did you leave Sylvi crying under the big oak? If you'd just held her, she might–"_

Nobeast should know about that. Nobeast had seen... Angry murmurs and outright shouts intruded. He watched the Bailiff pull Aya toward a group of Long Patrollers standing off to the side. The fellow heading the operation had not escaped Fjord's notice: Colonel Cheesewright Sharpe.

The dancer hastily sought something else on which to bestow his focus.

"That might have gone better, wot?" he said, lobbing a wry smile at his companion, Cecil.

The hare was squashed between the squirrel on his left and the otter, Juniper, on his right. Unfortunately, the actor had returned from the mysterious adventure he had disappeared to and pounced on the wedge of bench visible between Fjord and his previous neighbor against the dancer's objections. Fjord had spent quite enough time around otters for the moment. Rats for that matter, too.

Skipper's and Forerat Lazuleep's interrogation yesterday had left him with a sour stomach and a mild appreciation for the fact that Skipper thought – and Lazuleep agreed – that he had all the spine of an invertebrate creature generally relegated to sharp bits of a fishing hook. It had kept him off the stand, but an honorable gentlebeast could only take so much insult before biffing a less honorable gentlebeast over the noggin.

"She was just brilliant," Juniper shouted in his ear. The otter was another beast who had escaped the stand. When questioned, he only smirked and tapped his nose with some nonsense or other about Skipper's daughter. "The passion, the outrage, the witty repartees! Did you see how she carried it off?"

"I rather think she was the one being carried off," the fire dancer muttered, but the actor had returned his attention to the fore where Cheesewright was dragging another beast to the stand, the Bailiff in tow. The colonel glanced up, caught Fjord's eye, and, of all things, smiled. Fjord had seen a wildcat smile like that once, just before ripping off the head of a still-wriggling smelt.

"Ehm... Cecil! Wot d'you say to popping off for a bit to take in the scene of the crime? Do a bit of the old hikkerty boo and the like?"

"Hikkerty boo?" He sounded doubtful.

"Well, they'll have to bring Ms. Aya up for trial again now she's been shown the yellow card and marched back to holding. Dreadful to see a lady falsely accused on the stand and tearing out her fur in frustration, so why not try to find some evidence to support her, or at least rule her out?"

"So," the bard said, catching on, "we find something to help Ms. Aya, and perhaps ring out the true murderer in the process."

"Righto! With so many chaps and chappesses on trial today, I can't expect Skipper to have picked up all the clues. Er... not to say he hasn't tried. Just, ah..." He glanced toward the front of the room and saw Cheesy still leering at him, a spark of knowing in the Long Patroller's pale eyes.

_Mary._

Of course the good little soldier would tell her colonel what had happened. And if she hadn't directly, the empty spot where her ring should be would have. He shifted his gaze to the doors through which Aya had disappeared. She was just holding Mary's ring for a bit as a sororal display of solidarity in the face of male something or other. Certainly it wasn't a permanent situation. Certainly _not_. He shot a smirk at Cheesy and a scowl replaced the other hare's smug visage.

"I understand, Fjord. Shall we leave directly? I should not like to miss Ms. Aya's second trial if she is called up again today."

"Yes. Ah, Juniper, be a good chap and save our seats, wot?"

"What do I get out of it?" He waggled an eyebrow in challenge.

"Erm... a round of applause?"

"Applause!" A snakelike grin split Juniper's battered maw, and Fjord half-expected a forked tongue to flick out between the otter's teeth. Instead, he barked, "I say! Righto, old chap! I'll jolly well save them 'til the sun sojourns 'neath the bally horizon, wot wot? Toodle pip and Bob's your uncle!"

As they squeezed past and clambered over the protesting spectators in Cavern Hole, searching for the exit, Fjord demanded, "I don't sound like that, do I, Cec?" Silence. "Cecil Sassafras, you rotter, answer me!"

"It hardly seems possible that a beast could precisely imitate your inflections, Fjord," he said, not looking 'round.

The hare wasted a glare on the back of the squirrel's head. "Yes, well... quite."

O~O~O

"Cecil, old top?" Fjord said, looking over his shoulder where a pillar had just grown a suspiciously otter-shaped appendage. Save for said pillar and themselves, the Abbey halls lay deserted – the spectacle of some two score beasts accused of murdering the Abbess of Redwall too much for the masses to resist. Fjord suspected there was a word for that sort of macabre glee in the plight of one's fellow creatures. 'Shutters fried' came to mind, but what sautéed window decorations had to do with anything, the hare couldn't rightly say. He'd have to ask Ms. Aya when she was no longer counted as a menace to society... which, admittedly, might be some time yet.

"Yes, Fjord?" Cecil's dulcet tones drew the dancer from his musings and back to the matter at paw.

"I don't mean to be a bother, and call me nervous newt if you will, but I rather think we're being followed."

"Why would you think that?"

"Well, it's either that, or Redwall has been decking the halls with webbed paws and rudders in lieu of the traditional boughs of wotsit." He tapped a claw thoughtfully on the side of his snout. "Bit late for that sort of timberous trim anyway, I'd wager. You don't think it's Juniper?"

"The contingency seems a remote one as he was rather keen on the idea of applause. More likely, it is one of Skipper's beasts come to spy on us," Cecil replied, eyes darting to the corridor behind where the otter-infused pillar had apparently taken note of the conversation and withdrawn the incriminating evidence of its furriness. "I would venture to guess he will not disturb us... unless he is disturbing you?"

"Not at all! It's just, erm... fancy asking him to point us to the site of Ms. Dittany's murder, might be a touch quicker than wand–"

"I know where it is." The bard did not raise his voice or growl. No tear dotted his eye, nor sniffle escape his nose. Not even a sigh passed wistfully through his lips. He simply said it.

Fjord reached out and squeezed his friend's shoulder.

"Thank you, Fjord." Cecil offered a small smile, patting the hare's paw. "I shall be all right."

"Quite!" The dancer felt a nervous chuckle getting away from him as he let his arm fall back to his side. "Who said you wouldn't, Cec? Certainly not this Hollyhocks! Really, though, old top, if there's anything I can do...?"

"It's over here," the squirrel deflected, pointing to the bottom of a perfectly ordinary stairwell. Well, it would have been perfectly ordinary if not for the various trinkets placed round the base, ready to trip a beast up and lead him to a certain headache and subsequent ice pack in the infirmary.

The pair moved closer and Fjord felt his throat constricting. The spiraling cracks in the stonework were reminiscent of a somewhat crook-spined serpent coiled and ready to spring.

"She was there," Cecil explained, pointing to an entirely-too-clean patch of floor. "Somebeast stabbed her in the chest, and her head..." He paused, drew in a deep breath and continued, "Brother Alden did his best for the funeral, but a rose once blossomed can scarce return to bud."

The dancer's eyes made a valiant effort to escape their assigned sockets, not so much for the bard's striking description, as for the flash of fire that seared through all five of his senses. He could smell and taste the acrid tang of blood, sweat, and terror in the air; see Dittany's glazed eyes and slack jaw as she lay, prostrate, where gravity and momentum had seen fit; hear the absolute chill of an unrelenting silence after a cacophony of shrieks; and feel the sticky, slick blood underpaw as he stooped to–

"Fjord?"

"Y-yes?" The hare's voice cracked like a chair that had seen the rump of one too many badgers.

"And you worry about me?" Fjord glanced to the side where Cecil had placed a steadying paw on his elbow and offered a wry smile.

"Always do, old top. Not really cricket for a chap to worry over himself when said chap's chum makes him feel like a right chump about his own problems at every turn."

"What?"

"You lost Ms. Dittany in a rather permanent way, Cec. At least for me with Mary..." He shook his head and felt a shiver run up his spine as they walked toward the stairs and ascended.

"Best get on with things, though, eh? I'd rather not miss Ms. Aya's trial. Or Hector's for that matter. He's the vulpine chap I was on the move with to Salamandastron. A tricky blighter, but I just can't believe he'd kill Ms. Dittany. And I'll be dashed if I can figure out when he'd find the time. That's the rummiest thing about the whole situation, though. Plenty of chaps had a motive, plenty had means, and a fair Abbey-ful had opportunity. But, finding one chap who fits all three? Nigh impossible."

"Do you think – Fjord!"

It was only the thoughtful, stalker-like habits of Skipper's minions that prevented the hare from meeting a fate similar to the late abbess.

Reaching the top of the stairs, Fjord recoiled at the sight of a full-grown adder slithering toward them with all due haste from the other end of the corridor. He'd tried to retreat, only to discover that thin air was a poor sport, indeed, when it came to supporting a chap's weight. With a gentlebeastly yelp of consternation, Fjord had tumbled backward, slipping just past Cecil's groping paws and into the chest of a very solid wall of otter.

"Cecil, look out!" the hare cried, thoughtless to the difficulties he might be causing his savior as he stumbled to regain his own footpaws and rescue his friend from a venomous demise.

"Calm down, hare," a familiar voice rumbled from somewhere behind. "What's got yer scut flyin' the white flag?"

"The bally snake!" But even as he gasped out the words, he had the distinct impression that something, somewhere, had gone horribly wrong – a cat had been left to mind the cream, a fox had been given free reign over a flock of woodpigeons, or, possibly, a materialistic monitor lizard had just been informed that her fancy gold tailring was nothing more than gilded lead.

Whatever and wherever it was, it permeated the air throughout Redwall, casting a pall of doubt across Fjord's mind. It was only Cecil at the top of the stairs, hurrying down again. He looked concerned, but not nearly frightened enough for a beast about to meet the business end of a serpentine menace.

"A _snake_?" the presence at his back demanded before shoving him forward and shooting off to meet the monster head-on.

"Fjord, what are you talking about?" Cecil asked. "What snake?"

"Aye, what snake?" the familiar voice echoed. The dancer wasn't surprised to see Twill glaring down at him, sling out and at the ready.

"There was... I thought I saw..." Shaking, Fjord progressed upward to stand beside the otter. Cecil joined them after a moment, and the trio stared down the adder-free corridor.

"But it was there!" the hare sputtered. "I jolly well saw it just... just..." He followed the line of his own paw where a gold and dark green tapestry had the audacity to flutter in one of the many drafts haunting the Abbey corridors.

"Well, bless me brother's rudder if'n that isn't the strangest snake I ever did see!" Twill scoffed. "Lady Willa's flag. Who'd've thought the squirrels kept pets like that? I'll 'ave the Skip look int' it faster'n ye c'n say noodle-'eaded bunny rabbit."

Fjord felt the telltale burn of embarrassment infusing his cheeks and ears, but his heart still beat out a terrified tattoo in his chest, refusing to do the sensible thing and calm down. The tapestry flickered again, and for a split second, it twisted once more into the adder, guarding the entrance to Willa's room. That was when it struck him.

"I say! This is where I last saw Abbess Dittany."

Twill's condescending smirk morphed into a suspicious frown. "Ye saw the Abbess up 'ere? When?"

"Steady on," the dancer advised as the otter advanced. "It was just the night of the party sometime. She brought a letter to me from my wife, and then..."

"And then what?" It was Cecil this time, eyes wide with hope. The explanation of the fight with Dittany, the flight down the corridors, and the yelling all died on his lips. Whatever her faults, the late abbess had captured the bard's heart. Fjord could not – _would_ not – tarnish Cecil's memory of her.

"And then I went back to the festivities, old top. There was some sort of explosion, and an otter chap named Juniper helped me out and led me over to his troupe. I was in a bit of a state when it all happened, so I'm afraid I don't remember much, wot?"

Twill continued to glare, but Cecil's face had melted to something between frustration and concern. "I think that's enough wanderin' fer ye two," the otter said after a beat. "Get back t' Cavern 'Ole."

"Well, now see here, Twill, old chap," Fjord began, "you can't just go about stalking chaps and ordering them about. Who do you think you are? We're free and righteous citizens of Redwall City carrying out an investigation–"

"Yer in a restricted area. Get."

Discretion being the better part of valor, and the adder-esque flag still sneering at him, the dancer beat a hasty retreat with the bard in tow.

O~O~O

"Are you certain you cannot remember more, Fjord?" Cecil asked for the umpteenth time.

"Cec, my very _persistent_ fellow," the hare said, dragging out his friendliest grin and applying it to his maw, "I've jolly well told you everything I can remember. If something pops to mind, a horde of voracious shrews couldn't stop me from telling you. Fair enough?"

"Yes," he replied, having the decency to look well chastised. "Yes, I am sorry, but if you saw Dittany up in the dormitories before she passed on–"

"Then I might well have sauntered right past the blighter who did it. I know, Cec. _Really_." He stared ahead as he said this, trying to remember the shade who had been with him and Dittany in Willa's room that night. But it was like trying to catch the rain – the more he groped, the less he could hold.

"Very w–Ack!" Cecil cried out as a door swung open, crashing into his shoulder. On reflex, Fjord grabbed for his friend, spun them around, and ended with one paw about the squirrel's waist the other clasping his free paw, half-kneeling to the floor with Cecil bent over backward.

"Erm... thank you, Fjord."

A beat.

"Let's get you up then, eh?" The dancer pulled them both to an upright position and separated, hopping over to the offending door that was even now groaning in resentment. Or rather, the lemon-colored rat laid out on the other side of it was groaning and clutching at his snout, from which oozed a thick stream of blood.

Cecil joined him, peeking around the hare at the vermin. "Oh!" the squirrel exclaimed, scurrying to kneel at the fellow's side. "I am terribly sorry. Are you all right?"

"I'b fihg," the rat mumbled, swatting the bard's paw away and levering himself up. "Wag where 'oo goi'g!"

"I say!" Fjord put in. "You're the bally chap swinging doors about like a frenzied Flitchaye just returned from the hunt. If you think that a bloody nose entitles you to the unadulterated sympathy of the masses, sah, then you've another think coming!"

The rat turned his tearing brown eyes to the hare, but before he could spit out some vitriolic remark, a _decidedly_ masculine voice from within the room he had been coming out of called, "What's all that racket, honey? Yer gonna scare the kits with that..."

The voice trailed off as it was joined by the body of a stoat in a red vest and black trousers. He blinked at Cecil and Fjord who blinked back. "Er..." the stoat articulated.

"Honey?" Fjord asked.

"Midger 'One'duggle t' 'oo!" the rat corrected.

"Your name is Mr. Honeysuckle?" Cecil translated, eyebrow jumping up his forehead to make an acquaintance with his hat. "That is... unusual for a ma... for a vermin, is it not?"

"Shug ub!"

"Er... aye," the stoat said. "That's our mate Honey. Sorry t' bother ye lads, we'll just be... goin'..." He plucked at the sleeve of Honeysuckle's tunic until the rat made his glowering exit, slamming the door shut behind them.

"I say, Cec."

"Yes, Fjord?"

"Did they seem suspicious to you?"

"Indeed."

"Reckon we should investigate?"

"Assuredly not with Mr. Twill scowling and making his way toward us."

"Right. Well. Back to the trial it is!" At least Cheesewright Sharpe had the benefit of being six-deep in a crowd of witnesses when it came to wreaking some sort of damage on the Hollyhocks corpus.

end of week five. 


	85. Waiting for the Stroke of Eight

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

start of week six. 

**Chapter 84. Waiting for the Stroke of Eight  
**

_by Fjord  
_

"That seems like a reasonable account for your movements, Mr. Murray," Forerat intoned. "We are, of course, all sorry for the loss of your daughter. Step down, please. At this time, Your Honor, I would like to move that the charges against Mr. Murray be dropped."

"A wise course of action, Forerat."

Fjord found himself in full agreement with the leathery chappess. The vole's story of heartbreak and whatnot had brought a dash of moisture to the Hollyhocks visage and, indeed, sniffles to the beasts situated around him. Juniper dabbed at his own eyes, and Cecil's ears and tail drooped empathetically.

"Motion granted," the bat continued. "Bailiff, please release Mr. Murray." The bat turned her attention to the rest of the room saying, "We will break for lunch now, my friends. Please return in two hours if you wish to continue to observe the proceedings... except Misters Fjord Hollyhock and Juniper Dantor. I would have a word."

The hare stiffened, turning to look at Cecil as he tried to ignore the veritable deluge of curious and accusatory glances shot in his direction. "Sh-shall I meet you outside, then, old top?"

"Perhaps back in the holding area," the squirrel agreed. "I wanted to visit with Ms. Aya."

"Righto..."

The bard joined the scrape, stamp, and rustle of beasts departing Cavern Hole while Fjord could only look 'round, hoping to catch a glimpse of Mary departing, as well. He hadn't been able to pick her out of the crowds so far, but she had to be here. Why was she here? She hadn't said before–

"I say!" He scowled at Juniper, rubbing the sensitive flesh where the blighter had just pinched him.

"You looked like your face was drowning," the otter explained as if these words combined to form a coherent sentence. Then, he pointed to Duskwatcher who had her eyes glued to them like they were particularly plump strawberries.

"I was pondering, old chap, not drowning," the hare grumbled as they stood and clambered over the benches toward the prophet.

"That's what I meant," Juniper rejoined. "Drowning in a pond. That's exactly how beasts frown when they're drowning in ponds."

Fjord found himself sidling away from the actor and wondering why he knew what different sorts of drowning beasts _commonly_ looked like as they scrambled over the last row of benches, stopping a polite distance – or rather a distance that Fjord judged to be out of her reach – from Duskwatcher.

"Your numbers have diminished, my friends," the prophet intoned without preamble. "There are too many threads," she muttered now, as if to herself. "Pulled in too many directions." Her black eyes flickered in the soft illumination of the makeshift courtroom and Fjord shuddered as they rested on him.

"O-out with it then, marm!" he demanded in a key that would have done any chorus leveret proud. "More of this prophecy nonsense, wot?"

She smiled, just a hint of tooth about it. "_Nonsense_, friend?"

"Oh!" Fjord started as Juniper clapped his paws. "You're that bat who said we were important!"

"Yes," Duskwatcher affirmed. "You would do well to remember it. The veil is still upon my vision, but I feel danger drawing closer. It is coming and your purposes remain divided, your hearts in discord. You cannot face the troubles this way." Her gazed darted between them. "There is something about the pair of you that worries me – a hiss of warning in my ear and a flash of gold at the corner of my vision. But there is little time. You _must_ gather your allies. This is _not_ nonsense, friends. It will come before these trials are through. Mark me."

"So marked, marm," the hare said, grateful that his voice had returned to a more reasonable pitch. "Now if you don't mind, we haven't time for fairytales and wotnot with the scoff calling us from outside. Come along, Juniper, old thing." So saying, he linked arms with the otter and all but dragged him off.

"Willful ignorance has led many to ruin Mr. Hollyhocks," Duskwatcher called. "A fact with which you should be well famil–"

He made as much noise as possible kicking past benches, drowning the charlatan out as they left Cavern Hole.

Once outside, the dancer disengaged himself from Juniper and hopped over to a table that the Abbey kitchens had laid with various dishes for the lunchtime crowd – _Just a bit of tuck to fortify the spirit before facing Ms. Aya the Ireful, wot?_

Fjord worked his way down the table, piling portions of apricot pudding and carrot casserole onto his plate beside mixed salad, slices of cheese, and several rolls. Whatever gloomy warnings Duskwatcher spouted, Fjord Hollyhocks would face the day with a full tum. He snagged a napkin from the end of the table and began trotting toward the shade of the orchard when he noticed something amiss. He slowed and noted that the tramp of footpaws that had been keeping step with his own moved to match.

Screwing up his courage, Fjord whirled to face his stalker and found Juniper grinning at him in a way that twisted the otter's face into a sinister portrait of misshapen lumps and lines. With some annoyance, the dancer noted that the actor's plate was a precise replica of his own, down to the carrots he'd stuck haphazardly in his pudding to make room for a few mushroom pasties.

The hare twitched an ear and stared forward again. Whatever Duskwatcher said, she was certainly right about Juniper: there was something about him that made a chap's fur want to straighten up like LPers on parade.

Fjord continued toward the orchard. Juniper kept pace. He redirected to the Abbey walls. Juniper followed. He switched course again to the pond. The otter adjusted his path accordingly. They continued this pattern until the fire dancer had led them in a merry little circle.

_For all the... I'm not a blinking mother duck!_

"Juniper, is there something I can do for you?" Fjord demanded, planting his footpaws and facing at the beast who refused to take a hint. "Bally odd chasing a chap about like a second shadow, wot?"

"Why won't you believe that bat lady? I thought her performance was quite convincing. And being part of a prophecy would add a nice dynamic to the storyline."

Fjord blinked, but chose to ignore the more nonsensical portions of the otter's comment. "I don't believe in all that superstitious rot." A beat. "Anything else? Wouldn't want to keep you from doing... wotever you actor chaps do in your spare time."

The otter nodded, then dropped his gaze and fidgeted with his own shrimp, lower lip pressed out in a pout. "Where did you and Cecil go during the trials? And how come you didn't invite me?"

"Er..." Faced with the otter's wide brown eyes - and more importantly, his wide, muscular shoulders that coupled with his long, sinewy arms, which ended in two bandaged, but undoubtedly sharp, sets of claws - the hare struggled to find a reasonable excuse.

"S-sorry, old thing. No otters allowed where we were going, don'cha know?" Well, it was an excuse, at least.

"What!" Juniper screeched, drawing the attention of nearby beasts.

"Shh! Calm down, Juniper!" Fjord shifted his plate so that he could grasp one of the actor's shoulders, but he couldn't un-light the kerosene.

"Of all the - the...!" Juniper dropped his plate of food – the dancer spared a momentary thought to the terrible waste this was – before his arms came up, knocking Fjord's plate aside and gripping his wrists like mittened vices. "'Ow _dare_ they ferbid otters. They 'ave no right! That's jist evil. They're evil! They're... Who are 'they'?"

The actor fixed him with a glower that could have melted ice at ten paces. The hare gawped before stuttering the first name that shoved its way into his head. "M-m-mister Honeysuckle!"

"Mr. 'Oneysuckle." Juniper spat the name as he would a cherry pit, which was dashed unpleasant for Fjord given that the otter was directing his muzzle at the hare's upturned face. "Where is 'e? Lead me to 'im, an' I'll set the wickin' snot-nose straight on otters an' ferbiddin', Fj."

Terrified as he was of this new character in Juniper's repertoire, it took Fjord a moment to comprehend what he had asked, and another to process what the otter had called him.

"Wot?"

"I said where is 'e, Fj?" the actor snarled, collecting the hare's wrists into one bandaged paw and using the other to yank Fjord's ear closer. If beasts hadn't been paying attention before, they certainly were now, whispering and pointing. None of them moved to help, though, and the Long Patrollers stationed around the Abbey grounds stared dutifully away.

_Bloody Cheesy Sh–_

"_Argh!_" Another vicious jerk on his ear brought the dancer's full attention back to Juniper. He was going to kill him. Or maim him. This was all just a game to the otter, after all. No doubt he was acting the role of...

_Acting. He's acting!_

"Cut!" Fjord cried. "Cut, Juniper, old thing. I don't like how you delivered that last line."

He found himself free in an instant, the otter twitching his whiskers in consternation. "Too thick on the accent?" Juniper asked. "I thought I might be overdoing it. Should we take it from the plates... or...?"

"Ah!" Fjord held up his paws. "L-let's just leave it for a moment, totter over to those trees, and cogitate and wotnot. Want to get a-a _scene_ like that right, eh?"

Juniper nodded, a paw pressed thoughtfully to his maw. He sauntered toward the tree in question, Fjord attempting to glide along behind as if he hadn't been half a minute away from a lop-sided head.

When they reached the shade, Juniper wasted no time plopping himself down next to the trunk of the tree, patting the patch of grass beside him as he beamed at Fjord. The hare approached, but remained on his footpaws – he had no intention of giving away even the slight advantage an upright position afforded him with the capricious actor.

"Not sitting down, Fj?"

A shudder trickled down his spine like somebeast had cracked an egg on his head. "I say, I don't mean to be rude, old fruit, but please don't call me that."

"Hmm? Why? 'S a good nickname. You can call me June!"

"It's not that it isn't a topping nickname, but it's what my matter called me."

"Called?" His brow creased. "Why doesn't she call you it anymore?"

Fjord sighed. It was like talking to a pup. He injected as much levity as he could muster into his next comment. "Bit difficult to call a chap anything when you've been marking the seasons by the number of worms knocking 'round your noggin."

"What?"

"She's dead, June."

"Is she? Maybe she just went to act in another play like Envie and Rufus."

Fjord blinked at the otter. He had no idea who 'Rufus' was – if, in fact, he was real – but Envie had–

"I'm sure it was a very moving scene," Juniper continued. "Tears, tragic final words, some sniffling from the audience. I had a death scene once where I got to talk for three whole minutes about my unrequited love. There was a very pretty ottermaid crying for me in one of the front rows that night. Anyway, were you there for it? I'd want to be there for... Doesn't it hurt to screw up your face like that, Fj?"

Fjord resisted the almost-overwhelming urge to punch Juniper by imagining all the possible ways in which the otter would subsequently dismember him in pursuit of the 'perfect' fight scene. He drew in several deep breaths, willing himself to relax.

"No, I wasn't there." Somewhere, a glacial wind howled in the furthest wastes of the Northlands that might have matched the depth of ice contained in those four words.

For the first time in their conversation, Juniper seemed to sense something amiss, and that said amiss-ness was his doing. "Oh... well... that's a shame."

"Indeed."

The actor twiddled with his paws a moment, then brightened. "When did it happen? Rufus only went off a little while ago. If she needs a hero for her new play..."

The urge had returned, this time accompanied by an idea for a rather novel use of the spare fire whip he kept in his trunk in the dormitories.

_He doesn't want to understand, Fj,_ Sylvi's voice whispered to him, sounding much too reasonable given the subject of their exchange. _You can't make him. Give it a go at his level, wot? A fire can't jolly well expect to burn straight through a wet log. You have to go around it to get at the heart of the matter. Remember, darling, adaptation is key! Without it, a fire dies and so, too, a fire dancer._

"Something he'd understand... Do you like plays, Juniper?" Fjord asked, cutting through whatever delusion-laden bile the otter was spewing forth.

"Plays?" He grinned. "Of course! I love plays. What about?"

"About a chap who was a rotten son to his mother."

"Oh, we put something on like that once. About a prince who pretends to go insane after his father is murdered. He wasn't very nice to anybeast, really. Except Envie. Envie played his friend. Are you going to act it out?"

Fjord surprised himself with a harsh bark of laughter. "Oh, that won't be necessary, old thing. Once was quite enough, don'cha know?"

O~O~O

**SCENE I**

(The rolling plains of Southsward on a sweltering summer day eleven seasons ago. The barest hint of a wind brushes across the yellowing grass and through the fur of SON, who carries matching wooden buckets filled with water in either paw. He is clad only in a pair of shorts and glances up from his toil toward the shade of a tree pressed up to the side of his family's country cottage. He hears a low moan and notices SYLVI slumped against the tree. SON drops his buckets and rushes to her side.)

SON  
Mum? Wot's wrong, Mum?

SYLVI  
S-son? (SYLVI raises her face to reveal tears flowing from her soft brown eyes. She reaches toward him.)

SON  
Wot's happened, Mum? Are you hurt?

(SON pauses to look over SYLVI for injuries, but none are readily visible. He grimaces with rising horror.)

Where are you hurt, Mum? Did... did somebeast...?

SYLVI  
No.

SON  
Mum, you're jolly well scaring the whiskers off me. Wot is it? (By way of answer, SYLVI reaches out and snatches his paw, pressing it to her cheek.)

SYLVI  
You love me best, don't you, Son?

SON

(Beat)

Beg pardon?

SYLVI  
You love me best, your mum. Those chittering old crows your father keeps, you'd never love them as much as me.

SON  
Erm... too right! Can't carry a spark to your flame. Was just telling Pyry the other day, don'cha know? 'Pyry, brother of mine,' I said, 'our mum is the finest of all the mums the old patter keeps. No i.'s, a.'s, or b.'s about it, wot!'

SYLVI  
Exactly!

(SYLVI moves his paw from her cheek, crushing it suddenly between her own paws and making SON gasp. Her tears have returned full force as she gazes at SON with drooping ears and a posture better suited to a beast thrice her age who has spent her life hoeing the fields and dragging the plow.)

I'm better than them. So why... why did he say he loved us the same? (SON's demeanor shifts from concern to confusion.)

SON  
Patter? Of course he loves you the same, Mum. You're all his wives. Bit of a cad if he loved one of you more, wot?

SYLVI  
He's a cad for loving all of us! That's not how... He was supposed to... I gave up... (SON pries SYLVI's paws off and moves back to standing. He tilts his head at her.)

SON  
Erm... no disrespect intended, Giver of My Life, but aren't you being a bit of a prat about this? You knew about Patter's wives when you married him. And really, wot's the harm? He loves you. Isn't that wot a chap's supposed to do with all his wives? (SYLVI's jaw hangs open, then she begins to sob, clutching her ears and curling over into a ball.)

SON  
Erm... right. Well... I'll just let you get this sorted out yourself, shall I? B-buck up, Mum. Really, a chap like Patter has plenty of love to go about. (Far from quieting her, SON's words only intensify SYLVI's cries.)  
(SON blinks at her, almost saying something more, but holds back. He gathers his buckets and exits.)  
(Curtains.)

O~O~O

"So?" Juniper pressed when the hare had remained silent for nearly ten seconds.

"So?" Fjord echoed, picking at a bit of loose bark. He'd slid down in the course of his tale and now sat beside his rapt audience. It didn't seem to matter as much as it had before.

"So, what happens to Sylvi?"

The hare closed his eyes and breathed deeply, letting the cool spring air wash through his throat, willing it to unclench. "She... she commits suicide in a later act, after Son's trotted off into the wide world. Left him a note, though. Had a few – Ha! – a few choice words about Son's patter and the proper way to treat a wife."

"Hmm... Do you think I could get a copy of the full script? It sounds interesting."

They were straying back toward 'I'd rather like to beat Jolly Old June's head in with a rock' territory. "'Fraid there's only one copy, and it's still undergoing revisions. Shall we... head over to the cells now to visit Ms. Aya?"

"But what about lunch? And the Mr. Honeysuckle scene? I think I've worked out how to do the acc–"

Fjord groped for a line of conversation that wouldn't lead to his being beaten to a pulp. The troupe. Juniper loved the troupe.

"So, how is it an otter chap like yourself came to be working with vermin? Bit strange, that."

"Oh, it's a great story," Juniper assured, ignoring the interruption and puffing up his chest. "A couple of seasons back, Hector got sick just before the troupe was going to put on _The Legend of the Greenstone_. They let us watch while they were rehearsing and Hector couldn't talk very well, so I started saying his lines with him. I know that one backward and forward!"

"Why would you need to know a play backward?" the dancer wondered.

Juniper opened his mouth, then closed it. He repeated this several times before settling on, "All the best actors know plays both ways. Anyway! Alastia noticed and told me to be quiet like the other slaves. Hector didn't like that very much and told her to be quiet instead, then asked me if I could act the part of Kaja. Well, of course I could! And from then on, I was a member of the troupe. It was much more fun than pulling the cart."

Fjord blinked for good measure, staring at the well-formed muscles rippling beneath the otter's arms. "You were their slave? Did the troupe attack your holt when you were a kit?"

"What? Of course not! Hector would never do that."

"Er... sorry, I didn't mean to... vermin raiders was wot I meant, really."

Twin peaks of uncertainty and dismay furrowed Juniper's brow. "Hector doesn't raid. Why would you think that?"

"Well, then how in the bally blue blazes did you become their slave?" Fjord could tell that the otter was becoming agitated again, but prudence was told in no uncertain terms that here was her case and there was the door, and she should jolly well hop it while the hopping was good. "Attack and capture is the usual thingummy these days, I'm given to understand."

"My parents sold me," the actor returned, crossing his arms and hunching his shoulders.

"They _sold_ you?" The hare could feel his hackles rising. "You're not a not a flipping pair of boots. Wot do you mean, your parents just _sold_ you?"

"Well, we didn't have much to eat, I don't think. And it wasn't just food, for your information. Hector put on a play for them, too."

"Dinner _and_ a show? In exchange for their son?" Fjord scoffed. "Well, they certainly drive a hard bargain! I'd have tipped the old offspring out at the first sight of a scone, don'cha know?" He shook his head in disgust. "Really, though, June, those-those asinine _wastrels_ bartered you away like a piece of furniture? Tcha! Shame upon them, I say, sah!"

The creases above the otter's eyebrows deepened and a few ridges about his muzzle joined in the display. "What do you know about it?" he demanded, baring his teeth. "Didn't matter to me. Why should it to you? I'm happier with Hector than I ever was with them. Doesn't even matter! I already said that. In any case, it's none of _your_ business.

"And... and that isn't really what happened. Hector was putting on a show and I ran off to join them. My parents were heartbroken. They had the whole holt looking for me, but hi-diddly-dee," he said, his head waving like a metronome and his voice taking on a tone of mock song and dance, "an actor's life for me!"

Silence.

Fjord wondered when they had both returned to their footpaws, but as his heart slammed against his ribs for the second time that day, and his whiskers quivered in the anticipation of flight, he saw that Juniper's claws had punctured through his bandages and were digging into the tree's trunk much closer to the branches than they had been before. His sense of self-preservation rather outweighed any lingering resentment over the otter's turn to bald-faced lies after Fjord's own waterfall-esque outpouring of soul just minutes before.

"Sorry, June, old thing," the fire dancer gabbled. "Didn't mean to upset you, but sometimes this mouth runs from here to Southsward before I can catch it and give it the talking to it needs. Though that'd be a bit difficult – giving a talking to to one's own mouth that is. After all, how would I deliver the stern lecture that every chap needs to give his mouth now and then without using the bally thing in the process? Anyway! It shan't happen again. My lips are sealed on the matter of parents and such from hither to yon. And really, I am sorry. No offense was meant, you know?"

The otter scowled, but it was different from when he had been about to throttle the dancer before over the identity and whereabouts of Mr. Honeysuckle.

"Who's offended?"

_'You, by the sound of it,'_ Fjord had the good sense not to say.

"I'm not. It doesn't matter. I said so. Go do whatever the blazes you want. I'm going to see Dom."

"Wotever you say, old thing."

As Juniper stomped away, Fjord realized that it was only the second time he'd seen the otter _be_ anything. He always _acted_ the part that a situation required – except when said situation wouldn't let him.

The dancer caught up with the actor as he passed by the food tables. "Don't you want lunch, June?"

"No."

Short, gruff, and entirely Juniper Dantor.

Fjord found himself missing the otter's acting.


	86. In the Manner of Millay

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 85. In the Manner of Millay  
**

_by Daskin  
_

_Am I kin to Sorrow,  
That so oft  
Falls the knockers of my door-  
Neither loud nor soft,  
But as long accustomed-  
Under Sorrow\'s hand?  
Marigolds around the step  
And rosemary stand,  
And then comes Sorrow-  
And what does Sorrow care  
For the rosemary  
Or the marigolds there?  
Amd I kin to Sorrow?  
Are we kin?  
That so oft upon my door-  
Oh, come in! _

_Daskin has left us. Perhaps, one day, we shall learn of his fate._


	87. Looking Upon Death Itself

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 86. Looking Upon Death Itself  
**

_by Dànaidh_

Dànaidh was tired of falling down.

He coughed in several short, irritated rasps, inhaled sharply, and sneezed. A balloon of dust billowed up and around his head, exiting through the gaping hole a few pawlengths above his prostrate position. Dust and dirt blended in a blurry haze, and Dànaidh waved the clouds away from his bloodshot eyes. He'd fallen into a tunnel of some sort; it was shallow enough to have kept him from seriously injuring himself at the landing, and as he rose with a groan, he found he could reach up and pull himself out with ease. He clapped his paws free of dirt and coughed again; his lungs reverberated with the painful response of foreign liquid. _I'm still drowning…_ he thought. _ But it's not my time—not yet!_

He squinted and covered the top of his vision with a paw, shielding the light from his perspective as he gazed into plunging depths of darkness. He was sure he'd heard something, something that had brought him over to the corner before he fell through the floor. An eerie, soft howl whipped through the tunnel, and Dànaidh couldn't be sure the source of the noise was only the wind. He shivered and stood up on his footpaws quickly, hoisting both elbows above the lip of the hole.

_"Leave us, surface-dweller!"_

Dànaidh propelled himself out of the hole with a greater sense of urgency, embarrassed at the amount of fear running up and down the length between the nape of his neck and small of his back. He bit his lip and clenched his paws until they stopped shaking, exhaled slowly through his snout several times, and let out a shuddering sigh. The tunnel under the shack was no force of nature or weather, but the work of some beast that enjoyed the blackness of the depths. Dànaidh lifted the discarded knapsack of the runner over his head and slung it on a shoulder, hefted the walking stick and reached for the burning oil lamp.

Another howl whispered from the dark tunnel, followed by the echoing sounds of scratching Dànaidh had heard before. _That's what it was!_ he thought, inching back from the jagged fissure. _The scratching sounds…they must belong to whatever spoke to me down there._

Dànaidh spun on his footpaws and reached for the latch on the door when a sharp hiss shattered the silence in the shack and broke a layer of cold sweat across his brow. The hiss ended in a solitary word:

_"…HELP…!"_

Dànaidh gulped and closed his eyes, pressing his forehead against the door. _Of all the creatures to stumble on this shack…_ his mind groaned. He coughed a single sob, opened his eyes and straightened his posture. _No, this isn't right. I need to get down there. Somebeast just called for help._ He turned back to the opening in the ground, let the walking stick fall by the door and pushed the knapsack around his waist until the bag rested on the prickly bed of his spikes. He dragged a trembling arm across his forehead that came away damp with sweat and blinked away the excess liquid from his eyelids as he grabbed the oil lamp and carefully set it next to the hole.

_What if I were down here alone?_ he thought, as he leapt back down the hole he'd fallen through only moments earlier. He landed softly, prepared for the descent this time. He lifted the oil lamp from its perch just above his eyes and bathed the bleak passageway with a flickering glow. The underground tunnel stood wider than he'd anticipated, and not well crafted like the handiwork of moles or other burrowers. This was a hurried job—much like the violent abduction he'd left above him—but it accomplished its task. Somewhere in this darkness, somebeast had cried for help.

"Well, let's fin' ye," Dànaidh spoke aloud. His voice boomed in the shadows and knocked against distant curves and crevasses. The hedgehog blew air through his lips and kicked a footpaw at the dirt below him, wishing what he'd heard had only been a dream—a vivid hallucination brought on by fatigue and hunger, compounded with his wound and the sudden satiating of his hunger and thirst.

His footpaw struck something thin and long that flew up in the air in front of him. His free paw flew forward and returned with one of his quills. He snickered and frowned as he inspected the fallen spike. _It probably came off in the fall,_ he thought. Thin and brittle in appearance, he knew it was deceptively stronger than most creatures thought. He kept it in his paw while he held the lamp higher with the other, stooped over to accommodate the lower makeshift ceiling, and plunged into the darkness.

The tunnel dipped and turned, grew narrower and wider with no apparent design or function in mind. Twice he nearly stumbled head over footpaw when the path dropped without warning. Stout roots and protruding bedrock offered pawholds that eased his trek. The howl of the wind whipped at the tongue of flame, and Dànaidh squinted into the dim shadows, looking for signs of movement or travel when the first voice growled at him again from beneath his perch.

_"Thy path lay dangerous for thee, if thou wouldst continue!"_

"Show yerself!" Dànaidh barked, waving the lamp in an arc. His eyes played tricks on him as spots and whirls left by the path of the flame burned their after-images across his vision. "Ya lice-bitten bastard! I'll clobber ye, if yer responsible fer wha' happened in that shack—I swear it!"

The black voice bubbled beneath him again, further away and growing distant. _"Mindless alien, retreat thyself to thy dwelling in the sun…be gone, and never return!"_

"Cor damn you," Dànaidh hissed, chasing after the voice. "Where are ye?" He began running, his anger boiling over the fear he initially felt. His footpaws splashed through a small underground stream, and he ducked under the overhanging grove of dead, twisted roots that reached for his cheeks and eyes with their thin, pale spindles. He pushed them aside with the paw holding to his quill, ready to bury it into the neck of whatever rat, weasel or fink had done such a cowardly attack.

The stream returned to dirt, and Dànaidh quickened his pace, the jostled lamp casting freakish shadows around the walls of the tunnel. The roots suddenly disappeared, replaced by what looked like long strands of pale flesh. Instead of being pushed away by his paw, these clumps of odd flesh—_but it wasn't flesh because it didn't _feel_ like flesh_—stuck to his arms and paws, fixed to his head and footpaws, and pulled at him with a strange, sticky feeling. He stopped his pursuit and shook at the wispy strands on his arm; they danced slowly in the lamplight, attached to his fur and unwilling to come loose. He lifted his footpaw and thrashed it about with a roar; the white sinews moved in slow repetition to his movements but returned to their position. He grabbed at a clump stuck to his right shoulder, only to have it extend out in thinner strands, each stuck to a digit that tried to pull the clump free.

"What is this?" Dànaidh asked, feeling the anger subsiding and threatening to give ground back to his fear. The horrible howl of wind returned, lifting the pale, fleshy strands descending from the ceiling like a curtain dancing in a summer breeze. The voice returned again, bubbling and frothing.

_"Walk this way and embrace thy death!"_

Dànaidh growled and charged forward in the dark, his footpaws collecting more of the white, sticky substance from the ground. His left footpaw stubbed on a small wooden wagon, and Dànaidh raised an eyebrow as it tumbled away from him. He passed a small woolen doll with dark braids and a stitched smile, laying on its side in a bed of white stuff. Dànaidh's eyes grew wide.

"Cor, no…" he whispered, slowly his run. "Please, in th'name o' mercy…"

He rounded a corner and shrieked, his eyes threatening to fall from their sockets.

A massive, multi-legged spider clung to the wall in front of him, whirring back and forth with slight movements of its skeletal limbs, its glossy black eyes reflecting the flame that danced in the dank, musty air of the burrow. Its pulsating abdomen heaved and flexed as Dànaidh looked it up and down, but his attention fell to a pool of movement below the arachnid. He lowered his lamp and his eyes followed. A swarm of tiny spiders ran and perched like a living body of water, dozens of miniature versions billowing over a pile of bloody…

Bones.

Dànaidh's breath caught in the back of his throat, and he felt every muscle tense across his body. "W-w-w-why?" he shuddered.

"I feed my young as thou wouldst feed thy own," the spider spoke. The voice was wet and harsh, each word amplified with a savage clicking of the beast's mandibles. "I hunt for them."

Dànaidh gestured to the bones in front of him, knowing one of these skeletons had been a living creature that cried to him. "You monster," he whispered, shaking his head in disbelief. "You Cor-damn _monster!"_

"Silence!" The spider turned completely around on the white-covered wall and scrambled down to the ground where the tiny spiders danced on the bones. As if on cue, each miniature spider scrambled up its parent's limbs and across its back, ending in a gross, living mass perched atop the parent's abdomen. "I shall not tolerate thy surface speech! Hold thy tongue."

"I will not!" Dànaidh growled, gnashing his teeth. "You killed these beasts, 'n' that's wrong! Dinnae matter if ye were hunting or nae. Ye cannae provide wi' th' blood o' a family. Ye pick 'n' choose, as creation intended."

"Thou wouldst dictate to Scox how Scox should feed her young?" The spider sounded incredulous, but Dànaidh recognized the rage boiling in her shaking posterior as she drew closer to him. "Vile creature, I shall feed thy tongue to my children, and they shall lick thy blood clean from the earth!"

"Try it, you nightmare!" Dànaidh cried, burying his quill into the largest eye on Scox's head. The glossy ball caved in against Dànaidh's paw and erupted a yellow, hot vile liquid that ran across the hedgehog's paw and wrist. He withdrew his paw in disgust, leaving the quill embedded in the spider as she writhed and screeched a sound Dànaidh could only imagine in the darkest corners of his own horrors. He breathed deeply as the spider continued to tremble and quake, yellow liquid spurting from its wounded face.

"Burn in Hellgates, you shadow-bitch." He pulled his arm back and flung the oil lamp as hard as he could; it erupted across the spider's back and abdomen in a terrific explosion of blue flame and black smoke. The liquid fire ran across the length of the spider and into the web-lain lair, burning everything it touched and transforming the black pit into a thundering oven. Dànaidh scrambled on his footpaws and ran out of the tunnel as fast as his footpaws would carry him, chased by the pain-laden screams of the burning Scox writhing behind him. The glow that grew in the tunnel from behind told him the spider had given chase.

_"Death to thee, surface poison!"_ Scox cried as she scuttled down the narrow tunnel. _"Death to all surface-dwellers! Scox shall slay thee and thy children for generationssssss!"_

Dànaidh scrambled through the roots, vaulted up the bedrocks and ducked through the winding curves of the tunnel. He reached the hole where he fell from and gashed his head against the edge as he leapt upward, crashing into what remained of the family table and rolling into the pile of dishes against the far wall. Scox billowed up from the hole slowly, her torso contained by the small hole. She struggled against the exit, four of her burning limbs thrashing about the shack and casting burning globs of oil all about. Dànaidh rose to his footpaws, blood running down his face and neck, grabbed the edge of the table and yelled as he overturned its weight to come crashing down on the spider, pinning her under its weight. A fresh torrent of yellow liquid rushed across the floor as Scox erupted in garbled, guttural sounds amid the roar of flame. The shack had caught fire and would soon come crashing down around them. Dànaidh grabbed the walking stick and burst through the door and into the night, tears rushing down his cheeks as the dying breaths of Scox howled on the night winds.

_"Curses on thee and thy seed forever, quill-back! Darkness shall reign over thee! Thy children shall be food for the WORMSSSSSSSSAAAAAGGGGHGHHHHH!"_

As he ran, Dànaidh ignored a crude wooden sign he passed beside the path. Drawn on the sign was the red outline of a church, followed by an arrow pointing in the direction Dànaidh ran…the direction towards Redwall.


	88. Feel Good, Inc

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 87. Feel Good, Inc.  
**

_by Cecil  
_

_"So, will ye do that fer me?"_

Cecil sipped at a warm cup of tea that had just been delivered by a group a kind molemaids and nibbled a scone, savoring the taste of the pastry as he pondered the Skipper of Otter's question. The otter stared back at him like a hawk, ignoring his own refreshments while he waited for a response.

The squirrel swallowed, holding out a claw for patience. He cleared his throat. "Why me?"

"So, ye don't want t' find the Abbess' murderer?" the otter asked.

"Of course I do," Cecil replied. "But, why me? Why can't somebeast else do it?"

Skipper sighed. "Like I said, lad, yer one o' th' few beasts I c'n trust," he said matter-of-factly. "Th' others, like Lazuleep, would draw th' eye o' a blind badger as soon as a 'awk. But, look at ye. Yer a common bard, somethin' beasties see nearly every day. Yer friends with some o' th' suspects as I c'n tell it, too. Hollyhocks was accused, and the squirrel, Aya, is on trial. They'll trust ye, sure as a riverdog trusts 'is nets."

Cecil nodded. "May I ask for something in return?"

"Hmm," Skipper said, "an' what's that?"

"I never came here," he said simply. "I never told you that Dittany and I were in love, nor did you ever find out. Nor did anybeast find out either. I know I have already asked you to keep it a secret and not to tell but… Dittany… Dittany wanted to be the best. Beasts always put her down, never believing in her and thinking she would fail, but she never gave up and she tried her best to prove them wrong. And, although I'm a newcomer to this glorious abbey and I know not of any of your previous rulers, she was the greatest in my mind. Please don't take that from her.

Skipper was silent for a moment. He nodded. "I c'n arrange that, sure enough."

The bard gave a single nod and stood up from his seat. "Then I shall begin immediately. If you will, it would be helpful if you declared the court in recess as it would allow me to get near the suspects without suspicion. Does that sound reasonable?"

Skipper nodded. "Aye."

Cecil nodded his thanks and turned to leave.

"Cecil?"

"Hmm?"

"'Ere." The squirrel barely had a chance to react before a sack of coins landed neatly in his paws. Cecil looked at it, confused. "Yer reward fer bringin' in the suspects," he said simply. "Maybe it'll fill those pockets o' yers."

Cecil glimpsed at it for a moment and stuffed it into his pocket. "Yes, maybe it shall. Thank you."

The otter nodded and picked up a file, flipping through a few pages. "Aye," he said simply.

Cecil gave a curt nod and, without a glance back, left Skipper behind. 

-.0.-

A spy.

Skipper had asked for a spy.

From the plays he had seen and the ballads he had heard, Cecil had a firm idea of what a spy was: a seemingly-average and ordinary beast who could slip into an enemy's camp unnoticed and steal the crucial information necessary to winning whatever war had broken out. The otter had made a wise decision for the beast who would fill the role.

Nobeast would ever suspect a bard. After all, it was something that a beast saw every day either singing in the city square in an attempt to fill their empty pockets with much-needed silver and gold, or scribbling away in a songbook. And when a musician was writing in a songbook, what else could they be writing but a song?

Cecil sauntered down the stairwell leading to the murder suspect's holding cells, flipping open the songbook he had taken his notes in and reviewing over them.

On the first page was a list of suspects, from Aya to the group of kitnappers, all written in song form as to avoid suspicion from anybeast who may have been looking over his shoulder. The following pages he had filled with information that he had learned from previous encounters with the suspected beasts as well as from Aya's trial and his investigation with Fjord.

Fjord and Aya were innocent, his notes and instincts told him that much.

Fjord was his friend and, although the bard hated to admit it, he was too much of a pushover. He didn't have the guts to squish an ant, let alone murder an abbess. Even during the their investigation, the appearance of the two vermin, the mysterious stoat and the rat, Mr. Honeysuckle, had induced a wave of verbal incontinence in the hare.

Cecil made a mental note to add a page for the two vermin. They had appeared- or perhaps- returned to the scene of the crime.

Then there was Aya, who, although vicious and terse, had saved his life. While it could have simply been her returning the favor, she had made the choice of saving him from the kitnappers instead of leaving him to his miserable fate. The squirrel wondered if deep down inside of her, cloaked by her exterior rage, was a soft spot that nobeast had ever seen.

Cecil harrumphed.

Daskin on the other paw was hiding a darker side. While he seemed to be an innocent child, he was just like every other vermin in the land: conniving, evil, and, most importantly, ready to stab a beast in their backside at a moment's notice. But did he really have it in him to murder the abbess?

The squirrel closed the songbook. There were just too many questions for him to discover the identity of Dittany's killer yet. Cecil let out a sigh. If only spying was as simple as playing the lute. He stuffed the songbook into the inside of his vest and straightened his collar. The bard hesitated for a split moment before rapping lightly on the door at the bottom of the stairwell.

"Aye?" a voice came from inside.

Cecil pushed open the door and peeked around its base. An otter sat at a desk in the center of a plain, stone chamber, an open book sprawled in front of him and a half-empty bowl of hotroot soup sat close to paw. Two flickering torches and three sets of bolted, iron doors were all that decorated the small chamber.

Spinning a ring of keys, the otter looked at him curiously. "C'n I 'elp ya?"

"Yes, if I may, I wish to visit-"

"Visitin' ain't allowed."

"Oh, I…" Cecil tried to say, "err… surely we can possibly arrange something?"

"No," the guard answered, "we kin't."

Cecil sighed and reached into his pocket. A silver coin flashed brightly in the torchlight for a mere moment before landing noisily on the beast's desk, spinning on its rim for a heartbeat before stopping neatly beside the otter's paw. He gave the coin a puzzled look. "What's this?"

"That would be a silver coin, kind sir," Cecil answered.

"Aye, fer what?"

"Well, you see, I happen to be paying you off." He got no response from the befuddled otter. "Err… as in, giving you money to allow me to-"

"I know what'cha mean," he replied.

Cecil scratched his head with a claw. "Well, did it work?"

The guard bit down on it. "Tastes funny."

"Well… it's a coin," the squirrel replied.

"Ye callin' me blind? I know what a coin looks like," he snapped.

Cecil took a step back. "Err… very well," he said. The bard gestured to one of the iron doors. "So, might I be allowed to go in?"

The otter took a glance at the coin then back at the squirrel. "How 'bout'chu gimme a gold instead."

"A gold?" the squirrel groaned. "That's dreadfully expensive." He searched through his pockets with a paw and produced the first piece of change he laid claw on. The bard looked at it quickly and continued, "I could give you _two_ silvers."

The woodlander paused, counting on his claws. "Deal," he finally said. Cecil nodded and passed him the second coin, snatching the keys from his grip and running to the first door he saw.

It was but the work of a moment for the bard to wedge the keys into the lock and push the door open. Aya sat motionless on a hard cot by the cell's only window, pale light illuminating her bright orange fur and giving off a blinding sheen from the manacles about her wrists.

"You're still a feather-brain, I see," was the first thing she said.

Cecil raised an eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?"

"Two silvers are worth more than a gold," she answered simply.

The bard cocked his head and quickly counted on his claws. "'Gates," he muttered.

Aya scooted over on her cot to make room for the other squirrel. "So, besides making a fool of yourself, why are you here?" Aya scoffed, rubbing at where a manacle was cutting into her flesh.

Cecil ignored the first part of her statement and sat down. "Here," he said, producing the sack of coins that Skipper had given him and tossing it to the squirrelmaid. Aya stared at it in disbelief. "I figured that that may brighten your day just a little… although I do suspect that it is not of much use to you in here, but… just a thought."

Aya let her claws run through the gold and silver coins inside in a seeming fit of relish.

"Maybe, once you are out of here, you can use that money to help buy yourself that new shop you wanted." Cecil couldn't help but to admire Aya. Her drive to purchase a new shop so that she could pursue her passion for baking was so much like his own ardor for music.

"Aye." She smiled, a rare thing in Cecil's eyes. "Thanks."

Cecil nodded. "But, onto more pressing matters," he said. Aya raised an eyebrow. "We must get on to the topic of your trial."

"They won't believe me," Aya said. "I'm already guilty in their eyes."

"Yes, and we need to change that or else I fear that your neck will not be straight, as it should be, for very long… and may be snapped… or possibly crooked." Cecil put a claw to his chin. "I wonder if your head will come off…"

"Cecil!"

"Oh, yes, right," Cecil replied, "but my point is, is that I do not wish to see you die for a crime you most certainly did not commit. In my eyes, you are as innocent as a newborn kit… although you seem to have a far more …colorful vocabulary than a kit." The bard smiled. "As belligerent as you may be… I believe that you are innocent."

Aya harrumphed. "And why do you think I'm innocent, Cecil? You heard what I said just as clearly as every other beast in that room did. If I had gotten the chance, I would have pummeled Dittany to within an inch of her life."

Cecil imagined what Dittany would look like if Aya managed to punch a permanent crater into the abbess' beautiful face. He cringed. "Well… that sounds… simply delightful." He choked back a gag and cleared his throat. "Aya, a murderer would not save my life, nor would she allow me to travel with her and eat her wonderfully-prepared food. You may have not liked Dittany, just as so many others did not, but I do not believe that's any reason for you to be condemned." The squirrel chuckled. "Aya… I believe you are innocent because you are my friend."

Aya eyed him as if a particularly unattractive bug had scuttled across his visage and personally spat a questionable substance onto her forehead.  
"My acquaintance?" Cecil shrugged. "Aya, you are my friend and I don't wish for you to die. When the time comes for court to go back in session and you are put back on trial, if you need it, please call me to the stand and I shall, to my best ability, vouch for you to be free. As far as I am concerned, you need a witness if you wish to plead your case effectively, and I believe that I am the best witness for that job. I can easily tell them of how you have saved my life and helped to rescue the captured kits."

Aya looked up. "Maybe."

_Tap. Tap._

"Hmm?" Cecil said as the iron door of the cell swung open, revealing Fjord with a dissatisfied look on his face.

Bally rotter of an otter stole my silver," the hare grumbled, gliding into the bare room. "Wot ho, Ms. Aya." He tipped an imaginary hat in the squirrelmaid's direction. "And how are we faring this fine day?"

Aya shot him a look. "_Dandy_."

"I have explained our plan to help prove Miss Aya's innocence," Cecil said, "and I assume she has agreed."

The squirrelmaid nodded. "Anything to get me out of this rat hole," she answered. "Let's just say that once they got me out of that courtroom, a lot more was thrown than just words."

"I do not think that throwing things at your captors helps in our current predicament, Miss Aya," the bard replied.

"I didn't throw things _at_ them."

Fjord was silent. Cecil blinked.

Aya simply smiled.

"Well," the bard said, changing the subject, "now that Aya's safety is almost ensured, Fjord, what did the judge, Duskwatcher, want with you? She seemed like she needed you."

Fjord snorted. "Well, she's got it into her great fat head- And I mean 'fat' in the properly aesthetic sense, old top, not trying to belittle a lady, wot?- that June and yours truly are bound up in some sort of grand wotsit preordained by those Fate thingummies the religious chaps are always waxing poetic about."

"You mean, like a prophecy?" Aya said, adding her own snort of emphasis. She laughed.

"A prophecy?" Cecil said in disbelief. "Ridiculous."

Fjord nodded.

_Tap. Tap._ The otter guard poked his head into the cell. "Not t' be interruptin', but court starts again in an hour, so ye may wanna skedaddle afore they show up fer her," the otter said. He extended his paw.

Cecil sighed and put a bronze coin into the woodlander's paw. "Well, Miss Aya, Fjord and I had best be going. Please remember, do not hesitate to call me to the stand if you believe you should need it." Both the squirrel and hare rose to leave. "Good luck."

Aya nodded.

Cecil and Fjord took one glance back as the otter closed the door and sat back at his desk, picking up his book and stuffing his newly-acquired coins into his pocket. "Come back anytime," he muttered.

The squirrel snorted and began sauntering up the staircase, his hare companion following close behind. "So, old top," Fjord began, "do you think Miss Aya murdered Miss Dittany?"

"Of course not," Cecil replied.

"Quite right. Quite right. Still ...she is an angry sort of beast, wot? Almost as angry as Miss Dittany when…" Fjord stopped himself.

"What?" Cecil said.

"Nothing."

"You were about to say something," the squirrel said matter-of-factly.

"Oh, would you mind, old top? I, ah... I think I left my spare firewhip burning in my dorm. Best to be sure about these things. Toodle pip!" The hare dashed off around him, leaving the bard alone and confused in the middle of the stairwell.

Cecil scratched his head. A burst of realization hit the bard like a thunderbolt. 'Almost as angry as the abbess had been when' was what Fjord had said. When what? The squirrel's eyes widened. The last meeting Fjord had had with the abbess was when she had delivered the letter to him. Dittany hadn't shown him who the letter was addressed to, not because of Abbess-business as she had told him, but because it was signed to Fjord.

Without hesitation, Cecil retrieved his notepad and opened it to Fjord's page. He wrote two words.

_The letter._


	89. You Can Make History Young Again

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 88. You Can Make History (Young Again)  
**

_by Juniper  
_

Juniper was feeling thoroughly disgruntled after the scene with Fjord. What business did the hare have asking about his past like that? Nobeast ever seemed interested before. He wished the whole thing had never happened. If the otter could rewrite the encounter he would, there was no doubt in his mind about that. His past never would have been brought up, and they would have continued to talk about that play of Fjord's, the consequences of Sylvi's death, and how the son ended up coping with it all. Maybe Juniper could have gone into his own play, _Chasing Shirley_, and introduced a riveting conversation on the parallels they shared in plot or exposition, whatever they were. Juniper didn't know himself. _Chasing Shirley_ had never really been developed all that well, and this was the first time he had thought about it since that fateful night when the hare had joined their party.

Whatever, it didn't even matter. The point was that the whole discussion had been avoided. Parents selling their children. What a stupid thing to say. The otter kicked himself for his idiocy, wishing he had the good sense to lie. He was liking more and more the idea that he had simply run away. It would have made his life more glamorous, more exciting. Instead, Fjord had to think him some outcast, whom not even his parents had the decency to keep and to love.

Juniper hated his life.

He wished he _was_ that runaway. That vagabond who ran off to join Hector's Acting Troupe, received his hat and became a well-respected, adored entertainer. He scowled at nobeast in particular as he traversed the hallways to the dormitories. The sooner he got to Dominic, the better.

It was a lonesome trek to where Dominic was being held. Everybeast was occupied with the trial, save a few squirrels and otters. They eyed him warily, and Juniper played with the idea of dropping his grimace for one that would make him a little less noticeable in the halls, but truth be told he was rather enjoying this self-pity festering inside him. Once he reached Dominic's room he'd change character.

"Ho there, matey. Where're ye headin'?" a brusk, female voice called out.

Juniper halted in his tracks. "Th' dormitories."

"Ye got yer hall pass? Dormitories're off limits exceptin' those facin' trial, an' Skip tells me yer off th' hook."

Juniper eyed the female, taking note of her crossed arms and bared sling, weighed down as it was with a hefty stone. He put his paws up in deference. "Please, marm. Me mate's in a real bind, y'see. His trial's comin' up, an' he's terribly flustered given th' circumstances. He don't even know who he is anymore."

The female gave a smirk. "Ye talkin' 'bout the weasel?"

"Aye." Juniper nodded. "Please. I'm his best matey, an' it might jus' be th'last time I'll ever get t'see him."

She dropped her smirk for a frown as her eyes darted around. "Aye, I suppose. Ye know where yer goin'? I don't want t'see ye wanderin' the halls where ye don't b'long."

"Of course not, marm. I know where I'm goin'. Er," he paused, "Do ye know which room he's in?"

"Third door on th' right at th' top o' th'stairs."

"Thankee."

* * *

"Who is it?" an acerbic voice said from the other side of the door.

"Juniper. I'm Dom's mate!"

"Dominic? Hold on a tic."

Murmuring.

"No visitors allowed!"

"Please!" Juniper cried, wincing at the poor idea of slamming his paw against the door for emphasis.

"No!"

"I'm his matey! What if I never see him again?"

Silence, then, "Fine."

The door creaked open and Juniper slipped inside.

The dormitory room reminded Juniper of the cart when it was being treated as a changing room, only this was larger and more glamorous. The mirror wasn't small and plain, but large and gilded, with a curved top that would have fit nicely if Hector had the room for it. Strips of cloth dangled across the top in a myriad of colors, some dull, others glossy, but all elegant in their appearance. If Juniper didn't have his bandages, he would have touched every one of them. Drawers were both closed and half open, and those that were open had clothes spilling out of them, as though they were trying to escape from their potential fate of dressing the damned. The bed had been pushed against the wall where more clothing hung: shirts of all variety, and trousers, too, in the event that that was a preference.

In the center of the room was an overturned bin, while one corner had Ella playing with a ball of string and another had Dominic sulking in a bath, shrinking from Juniper's eyes.

"I told you I didn't want him in here!"

"Oh, did you? I must have misheard," the russet colored vixen said, smirking.

Juniper was grinning, too. "Oh, relax, Dom. I've seen you in less than that."

"Have you?" The weasel poked his head over the basin. "How do you mean?"

"Well, you've got bubbles in critical areas. Come on, we used to take baths together all the time!"

"Did we?"

"Of course!" He frowned as Dominic lowered his head until his eyes were the only thing in view. Even his ears were pinned back and out of sight. "Not recently, silly. When we were kits!"

"Oh," Dominic said.

"What are you doing?"

"They say I have to look presentable for my trial," Dominic said in a miserable voice.

"I don't think you should worry too much. What's the worst that can happen?"

"I'm convicted and thrown in jail for the rest of my life."

"Ah, yes. I can see it now…" Juniper's face twisted into a scowl and his voice turned deep and grating. "The evidence before the court is incontrovertible; there's no need for the jury to retire! In all my years of judging, I have never heard before of someone more deserving of the full penalty of law! The way you made them suffer, your exquisite wife and Mother Abbess, fills me with the urge to defecate!"

"I never had a wife!" Dominic tried to interject, but Juniper carried on without hesitation.

"Since, my friend, you have revealed your deepest fear—I sentence you to be exposed before your peers!"

"Ella, stop it!" Dominic yelled across the room. He had turned his attention towards his kit, who was rolling around with the ball like it was her sworn enemy. "I don't want you playing with that!"

"Hmm?" The otter looked in Ella's location and smiled. "Oh, she's fine," he said as he walked over to her side.

"No, she's not. She could choke on that thing, or she could wrap it around her neck and strangle herself to death."

Juniper raised an eye. "How?"

"Somehow!"

"Quit complaining," the vixen barked as she dunked Dominic's head beneath the surface of the water. He came up sputtering, screaming about how he was being drowned. "Oh, you will drown if you don't sew that muzzle shut. You, too." She cast a cold glance at Juniper. "I'll be sure of it."

Ignoring the threat, the otter plopped himself down next to Ella, stealing her string. He wrapped the loose thread around the ball and tucked the line inside itself to prevent from unraveling. To see all this done with paws as bandaged as his was quite a feat. Juniper wasn't sure how he did it himself.

"She's fine, Dom," he said, throwing the ball across the room. Ella ran to retrieve it. "You should stop worrying. I don't know what got into that head of yours. You used to be so carefree and reckless."

"Was I?" the weasel muttered, miserably sarcastic. "I don't remember being reckless before."

"Of course not. Remember?" Juniper tapped his head with a paw, then shook his head. "No, you don't."

"Don't throw that ball too far. She might trip and fall."

"Was it the kit, Dom?"

"Ella?"

"No, Eloise."

"Who's that?"

Juniper sighed. "Yes, Ella."

"Ah." Dominic's eyes darted back and forth in worry as the vixen moved lower with her brush. Then he relaxed, squinting and biting his lip in a suppressed smile.

Ella, seeing the cue as she rose with the ball of string in her paws, waddled over to Dominic and peered in the tub. Then she turned her gaze to the vixen, who received a long, scrutinizing look. "Poppy," she said, grabbing at his whiskers to pull. "I don't want a foskers mommy."

The vixen paused mid scrub at this. "Is she serious?"

"What? No!" Dominic gasped. "Ella, hush, please! You're embarrassing me!"

"Are you sure she the cause of your embarrassment?" Juniper grinned.

"Yes!"

The vixen, whom Juniper decided to call Rufescent for the sheer color of her fur (it didn't matter what her name was, really, seeing as how she was nothing more than an extra), scowled and lifted Dominic from the tub, apparently finished with her job of scrubbing him clean. The weasel's paws went wild as they became his only route to decency, but by the way Juniper's grin increased in size, whatever he was trying to cover up his attempts were too late. Once the weasel was toweled and brushed, Rufescent directed him to the upturned bed, where he was to pick out a set of clothing to wear for the trial. He did so with his paws at his waist and his tail between his legs.

"What are these?" he asked, using his muzzle to point at two long tubes connected at one end.

"They're called trousers," Rufescent said.

"How do they work?"

"You stand in them."

"Like me!" Juniper said. He rose and twirled.

"Ooh, how novel."

"Novel, indeed." Juniper sat back down with a wink.

"I don't know, though. I've never worn trousers before, and I'm not sure I've ever seen a weasel wear them, either. I wouldn't want to ruin Juniper's sense of style—"

"As well you shouldn't."

"—so I think I'll go with this tunic."

"That tunic? Really?" Rufescent scoffed.

Dominic's whiskers drooped. "What's wrong with it?"

"It's black," Juniper answered.

"I like black."

"Black is far too sombre. We want them to think you're innocent, right?"

"I _am_ innocent."

The otter and vixen exchanged a look.

"Of course you are," Juniper said. "What I would recommend is a nice mustard color; something that says 'I didn't do it, in the dormitory, with the knife.' "

"No," Rufescent said. "I'm pretty sure mustard _does_ say that."

Meanwhile, Ella was wandering around the room, as kits are wont to do when left to their own devices. The ball of string was in paw, though it was beginning to unravel. Juniper had a strong desire to step on the line, just to see what would happen, when Ella stopped and pointed to a painting of a mouse clad in armor, holding a gorgeous sword behind his back.

"Marten, marten!" Ella cried.

"Silly, that's a mouse," Juniper said. "Dom, why doesn't Ella know her animals, yet?"

"She does know her animals! She's been going on about martens all week."

"So did you really use a knife?" Rufescent interjected in an attempt to bring the conversation back to gossip. She had ushered Dominic on the upturned bin and was now picking out his clothes for him.

"No, I didn't." Exasperation was layered thick on Dominic's voice like bandages on the otter's paws. "Juniper says I used arrows."

"Not for Dittany's murder," the otter countered. "Just the otter."

"You killed an otter?" Rufescent's own voice had dropped the acridity and adopted something more akin to excitement.

"I did not!"

"He 'did not.' " Juniper raised his paws, but dropped them to his side when he could not achieve the quotation mark gesture.

"Oh, shove it out your ear."

"Hard to do that when they're so small!"

Dominic groaned.

"Seriously, my ears are really small. It's hard to clean them."

"Are they now?" Rufescent asked between the pins in her mouth. She had given Dominic to a pair of trousers and a shirt, and was currently in the process of fitting him. Pools of fabric bundled on the ground at his footpaws, and Dominic looked as though he had lost few seasons in age. Juniper giggled. He looked very much like Ella.

"These clothes are too big," the weasel whined.

"At _least_ you'll be wearing something!"

Rufescent sighed and gave Juniper a long look. "We're sick of your mouth."

Her words had a sobering effect on Juniper. Despite being an almost expected sentiment coming from a character of her archetype, the otter had to admit his comedic antics might be stretching the bounds of endearment and crossing into the dangerous territory of annoyance. He tossed the ball for Ella, who had finally given it back to him, when a sudden idea crossed his mind. A dastardly, diabolical scheme that he liked partly because of the alliterative phrase he just used, but also because it was good storytelling.

"Can you stop throwing that ball?" Dominic asked.

"We're playing fetch!"

"I don't like the idea that you've reduced my kit to a common beetle."

"What does it matter to you?" Juniper said dismissively. "She's not even yours."

Dominic froze. "Don't you even joke about that."

"About what? Ella?"

"Yes, Ella!" the weasel barked.

"Dominic," Juniper said, sighing, "this relationship you have with this kit is getting old. It's stretching the bounds of endearment and crossing into the dangerous territory of annoyance."

"What the wick are you babbling about?"

"Ella's not yours."

Dominic tried to squirm away from Rufescent, his paws bunching into fists. "Of course she's mine!"

"No, that's what you keep telling yourself. Truth is you stole her from the infirmary from a sick jill. She was too weak to fight back."

The weasel shoved Rufescent away from him and stormed over to where Juniper was sitting on the ground. The otter scrambled to his footpaws. "Ella is _mine_ and I will _gnaw_ you if you think otherwise!"

"Dominic," Juniper said, putting his paws up in defence. Dominic hadn't begun swinging yet, or biting for that matter, and the otter was sure that he could turn it around to his advantage. He looked hard into the weasel's eyes, hard enough that Dominic would have to believe him. Then Juniper paused, waiting until the tension in the room was ready to snap, because such suspense was deserving for a reveal like this. "Why do you think that otter was trying to take Ella away from you? Because you were her daddy? Or because you took her from her mother?"

Dominic opened his mouth, then closed it. Then opened it again and closed it. His breath quickened.

Rufescent broke the silence. "Is he serious? Are you serious?"

"I … but I … but I had Ella before I came to Redwall! She was there when I met Vikraja! And I know Vikraja's real because Ella was covered in cocoa after the Abbey blew up!"

It was a good line. Juniper didn't know what to say. He needed a moment to think. He shook his head, his mind working feverishly. If he could work it so that Vikraja was nothing more than his imagination….

Too late. Ella had perked up at the mention of the lizard's name. "Vikrarararara … rarara … rara," she began babbling in a sing-song voice. "VIKrarara, co-oh-oh-oh-OH-co-OH-coa! Araraara, Vikrarara campin' co-OH-coa…"

The otter's heart was beating faster. He was losing it. He needed to stall, he needed to regain control before it all came crashing down on him. "Please!" he cried, the line coming out of pure instinct. "Of course Vikraja's real, but you have no right bringing her into this psychotic mess."

"What are you talking about?" Dominic shouted. Rufescent was on her haunches, watching the show. "It's proof that I had Ella before I came to the abbey!"

Confidence filled the otter. He could play this game. So long as you were the one that ended up being the loudest, you were the one that ended up being right. But what could he say? If Dominic believed what he said, then all Juniper had to do was reorder the events.

"You're wrong!" the otter yelled. "How did Ella become covered in cocoa? Were you baking a pie?"

"Faye stashed her in Vikraja's cart!"

"The same Faye that the Warden was unable to find?"

"Yes, that Faye!" Dominic's voice would have set the entire abbey aflame, stones and all.

"Are you mad?" Juniper countered. "She's a figment of your imagination! There's no Faye!"

"Poppy," Ella whined, oblivious to the conversation going on around her. "Wan' Faye milk."

Dominic jabbed a shaking paw in Ella's direction.

"Dominic, stop it!" Juniper yelled, his head in his paws. "Of course Ella's going to cry for Faye! Who do you think her mother was!"

There was a sudden _whump_, and when Juniper lifted his head he saw that Dominic had fallen to the ground.

"That's…" Dominic swallowed. His voice was small, broken. Juniper had a hard time trying not to smile. "That's a lie."

The otter adopted a tone of sympathy and compassion. "No, Dom. You took Ella from Faye, and killed an otter in your escape. The entire abbey was after you, so you stowed her in Vikraja's cart to get rid of the evidence."

"Lies," Dominic breathed.

Juniper sighed and shook his head in sadness. "The only lies are the ones you're telling your self."

Silence.

"Come on," Rufescent said. Not even she had the heart to sound biting. "I need to finish you up."


	90. Where is Your Husband?

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 89. Where is Your Husband?  
**

_by Dànaidh_

"Stop where ye are, or I'll snap yer neck five ways!"

Dànaidh followed the clamor breaking behind him for several minutes, crouched low in the brush just beyond the pawpath, his eyes straining for signs of movement or outlines of pursuing creatures in the failing light of dusk. What he finally saw took his breath away: a monstrous hulk, with multiple limbs protruding from its swollen frame. Unnatural moans bellowed with every teetering step, as it broke through all assortments of vegetation, leaving a path of destruction in its wake. Dànaidh waited until the creature passed in front of him before barking out his orders, watching it halt and lurch in startled fear.

"Yeeeeorrwwwwooo," the mass moaned lowly. It seemed to be turning its bulk, trying to see who—or what—had just frightened it. Dànaidh wiped a stained paw across his dirty snout and rose to his full height, flexing his muscles as he narrowed his eyes at the massive shadow.

"Don't move, or I'll clobber ye," Dànaidh said, stabbing a digit at the hulk. He swung the walking stick he carried and cleared away a clump of briars that stood in front of him in a solitary swipe. The mass raised its two largest limbs and began inching backwards; Dànaidh couldn't tell if it was ready for a fight, or frightened for its life. He assumed the latter but steeled himself for the former.

"Ooorrrrrnnnuuuu," the creature wailed. "Rrrrrrreeeeeeaaaa!"

"I told ye tae stop," Dànaidh growled. He lifted the sack over his head and tossed it and the walking stick off to the side and jogged low, pouncing at the last moment and tackling the hulk somewhere close to its midsection…he hoped. The two landed with a terrific crash through a patch of wild strawberries, and Dànaidh used his momentum to tuck and roll forwards into a small creek. He rose on all fours, his right paw digging for a hefty river rock to fling if the mass didn't enjoy its tumble.

The mass quivered, shook and began to thrash side to side as strange noises reminiscent of sobbing erupted from somewhere within. Dànaidh's face twisted in an odd expression as he let go of the rock and stood up slowly, paws on his hips.

"Wha's this, naow?" he asked, completely bewildered. The thing continued to fling itself about until Dànaidh lost all patience and kicked a wave of water onto its torso. "Hey! Cut it out!"

The water worked miracles. It washed away caked mud, dried blood, twigs, leaves and other fragments of nature stuck to Alastia's fur. The wildcat coughed and sputtered, blinked her eyes rapidly, and erupted in a fresh bout of caterwauling.

Dànaidh twisted a paw in his ear as he grimaced at the noise. "Och, it's you. Wonderful."

"Why?" she wailed, rolling onto her stomach and pounding her paws on the grass. "Why d-d-did you kick wa-wa-water on me?"

"I didn't know what ye were, 'n' I wanted ye tae halt making that racket!" Dànaidh twisted his neck and raised his paws, struck with realization. "How come I'm tellin' ye what I did? I dinna have tae explain myself tae you."

"You…" Alastia regained a semblance of her composure and rose to a kneeling position, revealing the tattered remnants of her once beautiful garment. "You…ingrate! How _dare_ you do this to me!"

Dànaidh blew air through his lips and waved her off. "You spoiled brat," he chided.

"You sneak up behind me, knock me down and bruise me—not to mention what you did to my dress—and then you kick water on me…and you threatened to _kill me!"_ Alastia opened her mouth in shock, reeling at her own realization. "In fact, you probably still _will_ kill me, won't you? You intolerable wretch!"

Dànaidh grit his teeth as he stomped over to where Alastia lay. He stared at her momentarily, exhaling in a long, hard sigh, grabbed her arm with a stiff paw (to which she released a short shriek) and drug her over to the creek.

"I knew it!" Alastia cried, struggling to pull her arm free from Dànaidh's grasp. "You're going to drown me and let the fishes feast on my bones! No—let me go! Help! _Somebeast help me!"_

"Quiet doon," Dànaidh scolded, pulling the wildcat into the cold water. Alastia hollered as she plunged face-first into the shallow creek. "You're filthy, 'n' ye reek _awful_."

Alastia's head broke the surface, and she gasped a huge inhale and began coughing again. She raised a trembling, muddy paw to her eyes and shook with surprise, fright and chill. "I…do…not…smell…" she sobbed, her lips quivering as Dànaidh stooped down next to her and poured pawfuls of water over her head and neck.

"Aye, ye dae," he said, chuckling to himself. "'n' this'll help keep trackers awa'."

Alastia sat rim rod straight at the mention of 'trackers.' "You mean…pursuers?"

"One in th' same," Dànaidh said, rubbing his paws none too gently over her matted and clumped fur.

"Awwwarr!" Alastia moaned, grimacing up at Dànaidh. "Easy, you prickly demon! Careful! You're ruining my delicateness."

Dànaidh snorted. "I dinna think 'delicate' is a word that fits ye anymair, lass."

"Enough!" Alastia thrashed, crashing her paws into the water by her sides. "Slave, I command you to stop!"

Dànaidh took two steps backwards, blinking. "What was that?"

"Better," Alastia said, pulling at her soaked dress. "Now help me uuhh—_aaaaahhhh!"_

"I'm nobeast's slave," Dànaidh hissed, pulling on Alastia's ear. She howled and kicked her footpaws until Dànaidh released her. "Understand?"

"Yes," she whispered, cradling her reddening ear. Dànaidh shook his head, hocked and spat into the water before drawing a pawful up and splashing it over his face, working out the gunk and sweat off his face and arms. He shook his paws free and stared at Alastia. The wildcat trembled and cowered at him.

"Are ye ready tae rise?" Dànaidh asked.

Alastia nodded. "I'm cold," she said.

"Gey well," Dànaidh answered, offering a paw to help her up. She took his paw and wrapped an arm around his neck. Before he could protest, Alastia slid herself into his arms. Dànaidh groaned and rolled his eyes as he hoisted Alastia up and carried her to the bank. "There ye gae."

"No!" Alastia protested. "I don't have the strength to walk…please…Doony…"

Dànaidh walked over to where he'd left the sack and walking stick. "'Tis _Dànaidh,"_ the hedgehog sighed, stooping to fetch his fallen items.

_(~#~)_

They walked together, Dànaidh and Alastia, until the sun set and left the sky black and void of starlight. Dànaidh knew the moon would rise full, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew it would be a different moon rising tonight. He had found the path again and walked towards Redwall until Dànaidh spotted a small inn with lit lamps around the windows.

"There's th' ticket," Dànaidh said, veering off the path towards the inn.

"What? What is this place?" Alastia asked, yawning.

"An inn," Dànaidh said. "Ye can lodge 'ere until ye feel weel 'nough tae travel again."

"Surely you're not thinking of leaving me!" Alastia cried, clutching tighter to Dànaidh's neck. The hedgehog groaned and sucked in air through his teeth.

"I've brought ye this far; ye can make it oan yer own," Dànaidh said. "Cor have mercy…"

Dànaidh walked up to the inn and kicked at the door several times. A mouse answered the door and opened it wide for Dànaidh to enter through.

"Welcome to Quinn's Inn!" he beamed, closing the door behind the hedgehog and running back behind the bar that greeted the entrance. "I am Quinn. How may I be of service?"

"I'd like a room," Dànaidh said, smiling from ear to ear. "Fer th' wife 'n' me. Honeymoon, ye see." Dànaidh winked to Alastia, who sputtered and began to protest before Dànaidh hissed quietly at her. She furrowed her brow and growled softly at him, but he turned his smile back to Quinn.

"Ah!" Quinn smiled, opening a large ledger in front of Dànaidh. "I see. You'll want the Couples' Chamber, then?" Quinn winked to Dànaidh. "Very nice, very spacious. Very private. Lovely room."

"That'll wirk perfect," Dànaidh said, readjusting his hold on Alastia. She yelped in protest. "My sweetheart darlin' seems bonny antsy, sir. Wid ye mind skippin' this part fer us?"

"Oh, but I'll need a record of the stay, in case—"

"I'll make it worth yer while," Dànaidh said, jogging towards the staircase. "Upstairs, is it?"

"Uh, y-yes, last door straight ahead," Quinn called, picking up the ledger and following behind the two. "But I still need—"

"Ahh!" Dànaidh cried, kicking the door open to the Couples' Chamber. The room was modest and cozy, bedecked with soft cushions, downy sheets and lacy doilies and fleur-de-lis. "Grand." He strolled over to the large bed and dropped Alastia suddenly, causing her to hop up and clutch her tail and backside and howl in pain.

"Oh, young love," Quinn said, wiping at an eye.

"Aye," Dànaidh grimaced. He felt around in the sack until he heard the familiar metallic _clink_ that revealed the purse he'd discovered in the pouch earlier in the day. He opened it and dropped several silver pieces in the mouse's outstretched paws. Alastia perked up at the sound of coins striking each other. "Well, here's fer th' trouble, Quinn, 'n' extra fer any expense she might req—" Dànaidh paused, looked over at the rising Alastia who stared at the coins in Quinn's paws, removed a silver coin from Quinn's stack, and replaced it with two shiny gold ones. "—require."

"OH!" Quinn cried, his eyes growing large as he looked at the wealth in his paws. Alastia brought a clenched paw to her lips to stifle a gasp. "Naturally, anything you two need will be brought up immediately."

"I must be goan," Dànaidh said, throwing an arm around Quinn's shoulder and walking him to the door. "Important business, y'see. Lads I'm needin' tae meet…tae, ah, chip th' ice 'bout th' bridle. Did'nae invite all'um."

"Oh, of course!" Quinn nodded, shoving the coins into his pocket and creating a massive bulge in his pants.

Dànaidh turned and waved to Alastia. "Sleep weel, mah darling baby bubby bunker boo!"

"Wait!" Alastia cried, rising to her footpaws. Dànaidh walked over to her slowly, frowning. "I didn't tell you how much I appreciate what you're doing, _Dànaidh,"_ she said, tickling the fur on his chest with a toying paw. "I'm glad you're realizing your duties, and I think you may be improving yourself in my eyes."

"Charmin'," Dànaidh said, smiling a wide faux smile.

"And I'd be forever grateful, if you'd trust me with that purse," Alastia said. She closed her eyes slowly, pursed her lips, and leaned in to—

Dànaidh chopped her lightly on her neck and caught her as she fell unconscious. He eased her over to the bed and tucked her in gently, pulling the bedsheets up under her chin.

"Ah, young love!" Quinn cried again. "How sweet."

"B'sure she has somethin' sweet-smellin' fer her bath t'morra," Dànaidh spoke to Quinn over his shoulder. He sniffed and waved a paw in front of his nose. "…'n' some mint water fer her breath."

"Anything you want," Quinn smiled, nodding to Dànaidh as he disappeared out of the room and into the night.


	91. Everything You Know Is Wrong

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 90. Everything You Know Is Wrong; Black Is White, Up Is Down, and Short Is Long**

_by Juniper_

"So why aren't you being tried for murder?" Dominic asked with a glower.

"Does it matter at this point?" Juniper said, waving his paw dismissively. "Nobeast really questioned me about it. I doubt they're even interested."

"Well, I'm interested. You were accused of the same charges I was."

"Yes, but are you bringing it up because it's been a lingering thought in my mind that I've wanted to tell but never got the opportunity?"

Dominic blinked. "What?"

"It happened. I don't know how. Maybe I could have told it at some point but nobeast seemed to care. So just drop it. I won't have you shoehorning erroneous scenes in where they don't belong."

Dominic's glower turned sullen. "I was just curious," he muttered.

The two were making their way back to Cavern Hole, Dominic now dressed in a button down shirt and trousers. Juniper hadn't agreed with Rufescent on the colors, so he didn't find any need to dwell on what became trivial matters. He felt there had to be mention of Dominic's bowtie, at least, as it was something the weasel had insisted on wearing. The otter agreed, and found it rather charming.

Ella was clutched in Dominic's arms, squirming with how tightly she was held. It was as though the weasel felt that once she was out of his arms, she'd no longer be his. Which was true to a degree, but Juniper did not want to flaunt his foreshadowing.

"June?"

"Aye?"

"What does defecate mean? Is it a type of boil?"

Juniper thought for a moment, considering the age group of his audience. Dominic could certainly handle an explanation, and he had a choice word that he was sure the weasel would understand. But then his eyes trailed down to Ella, who had ceased writhing in his arms to hang limp in defeat. There was always a risk using certain terminology for your prose in the event that invisible young'uns might be present, but you could always turn a blind eye when censorship didn't suit the impact you wanted. In this case, however, Juniper couldn't play that card. And he didn't want to exchange the word he wanted for one like "doodie."

"Eh, I'll tell you when you're older."

"We're both the same age!"

"I just…" Juniper sighed. "Not with Ella around."

Dominic shifted her to a better position. "Fine."

"You know, I'm surprised she's female. I would have thought you'd take a little jack."

"I didn't take her!" Dominic scowled. "… But if I could have chosen, well…" He paused. "Diaper changing would be a lot less awkward."

"Awkward? Really? That's all you have to say about it?"

"What are you talking about?"

"I just remember you very much liked the jacks in town, is all."

"What, like friends?"

Juniper coughed. "Do you remember Glacis?"

"What about Glacis?"

"What about Glacis?" Juniper repeated, aghast.

"Yes."

The otter could not help the thrill he felt at Dominic's aggravation. "I can't believe you're asking me. I was alway the one asking you."

"Asking me what?"

"Well, I've always wondered. Well, not always, but for the past few seconds … what's it like to kiss a pine marten?"

"Don't … don't ask [i]me[/i]! Pine-nut."

"I'm not the pine-nut who snogged Glacis in front of everyone when you got your archery trophy."

"… What." Dominic was too exhausted to use the inflection customary for a question.

"And don't even get me started on what I saw you two doing in that boisonberry bush later."

"Picking berries?" Dominic hazarded.

"Doing [i]something[/i] with round fruits, yes…" Juniper lingered on the last syllable. "Honestly, I don't understand what it is with you and pine martens. Is it their tail?"

The weasel's muzzle flushed, but Juniper didn't give him time to respond.

"I'm just glad the Gergregs aren't here. They're twins, you know."

Dominic licked his lips; Juniper grinned.

"T—twins?" The weasel breathed. "Do you think … do you think they would…"

"They might!" Juniper lowered his head to Dominic's level and whispered in his ear. "I made a few drawings nobeast else has ever seen."

Dominic took a second to process this, and then shook his head, as if whatever idea he had in there wasn't worth keeping around. "I don't want to know what kind of pictures."

"It was your idea!"

"It was [i]not[/i]!"

"No, I'm pretty sure Glacis was your idea."

"And the Gergregs?"

Juniper's face split into a broad smile. "Mine."

"Mm. Anyway, do you think they would do a show for Ella? Maybe it would get it out of her system."

"Just for Ella?"

"Yes!"

There was a lull in the conversation, during which time Dominic shifted Ella to one arm to fix something that was bothering him. Juniper, in the meantime, could not help but let his thoughts linger to Envie. Now would be a nice time for music in the interim, and the stoat was always good at providing a musical score, even if it was in the form of whistling.

"Juniper?" Dominic cast a few quick glances at the otter.

"Hmm?" the otter hummed, his lips caught mid-whistle.

"Did we really grow up together?"

The otter smiled. "Of course we did. Why would I lie about that?"

"Because … because Ella. Why would you say she's not mine?"

The otter sighed, and ruffled his ears with a bandaged paw. "Listen, don't worry about that. It's hard, because you don't remember anything. I know; it's hard on me too."

"Why did I even leave you in the first place?"

The otter sighed. "It … it wasn't you who left, Dom. It was me."

"Where did you go?"

Juniper hesitated. Now was his chance: exchange the truth for fiction. He was already convincing Dominic that the past he knew wasn't real, and the otter was in the midst of recreating the weasel's whole life. If he could do it to Dominic, then it why couldn't he do it to himself? Trade his past for something better….

"I ran away to join an acting guild."


	92. Subpost for Dominic Wright

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 91. Subpost for Dominic Wright  
**

_by Fjord_

Somewhere along the way, Dominic, Ella, and Juniper acquired an entourage of stern-faced hares who barked things like: "Mind your manners, weasel." and "One footclaw out of line, sah, and your tail will be decorating Colonel Sharpe's belt." He tried to ignore them, shifting Ella to one arm and tugging at the strip of fabric knotted at his throat.

"Quit pulling, or it'll come loose," the otter to his right advised.

"If I wanted a noose around my neck, I'd head straight for the gallows," the weasel grumbled, dropping his paw nonetheless and repositioning his daughter once more.

Or somebeast's daughter.

Looking down at her, Dominic felt his throat beginning to constrict and a burning sensation flickering around the rims of his eyes. "I-I think I'm dying," he told Juniper. "Rabbit fever."

One of the hares trotting beside him snorted and the weasel held his breath.

"You'll be fine, Dom..." A slightly leery look. "Probably."

"Poppy hurt," Ella squeaked, squirming as he tightened his grip around her middle.

The burning flared again, and Dominic had to blink, feeling a few stray drops of liquid trickle down his cheeks. His nose had acquired a bad case of the sniffles.

"Calm down," Juniper soothed, patting his shoulder. "You'll be fi–"

"You'll need to give me that kit now, sah," a hare commanded as they stopped outside the entrance to Cavern Hole.

Instinctively, the weasel shifted, shielding Ella from the beast. "Touch her, and I'll bite your paws off," he hissed, scrunching his face into a fearsome scowl. "You've got rabbit fever. I can tell. You gave it to me!"

"Didn't your mum ever tell you your face would stick if you stretched it like that?" the hare deadpanned.

Dominic's eyes widened. "That's not true! That's a lie... right, June?"

"What he means to say, sir," Juniper translated, "is that he'd like to hold her if that's all right."

"It's not all right. She isn't on trial for murder, so there's no reason for her to be on the stand, wot?" The tilt of the hare's ears relaxed and his posture shifted to something resembling at-ease. "Really, old thing. Just give her here. I'll hold her where you can keep an eye on her from the box. Just can't have her up there. Jolly bad form, don'cha know? If she should leave your sight for a moment, may Lord Brocktree's sword strike me down!"

"Give Ella to him," the otter said.

"No. She's mine, and he made me sick!"

"I's Poppy!" Ella agreed wholeheartedly.

Juniper sighed. "How many times do we have to go through this, Dom?"

"Twenty-five!"

"What?"

"Twenty-five times." Petulance had never been his strong suit – at least as far as he remembered – but having a kit brought out the best in a beast. "Once for every season they'll lock me away."

"I wouldn't worry about being locked away, sah," another hare commented with a sinister waggle of his eyebrows.

"What's goin' on out 'ere, then? They're waitin' on–" An ottermaid poked her head out of the entrance and ogled the beasts standing about. Her eyes fixed on Juniper after a moment and she smiled, sliding out and closing the heavy door behind her. "Ahoy hoy, June!"

"'Ello, Melian," the male returned with a broad grin.

"We need to get this blister to paw over the kit before we can take him inside," the disease-infested hare explained.

"Ho?" Melian raised an eyebrow.

"Would you give her to me, Dom?" Juniper queried, a plaintive lilt suffusing the words.

Dominic considered the request for a moment. It was obvious _some_beast would have to hold Ella while this madness proceeded. At least this way he could choose a beast he trusted. Whiskers twitching into a frown, he carefully maneuvered Ella, turning her around to face him and holding her up to his snout. She didn't look like Faye, but Juniper was his best friend. Why would he lie? Such a horrible lie. A lump of something congealed in his throat and stuck there, but he managed to gulp it down with the help of a few ragged breaths.

"I love you, Ella."

"Love you, Poppy!" She licked his nose.

He thrust her at Juniper and the otter took her... and then proceeded to paw her directly to Melian.

"Why would you do that?" Dominic cried.

"Shh." June flapped his bandaged paws. "Melian's a friend, Dom. She'll be able to hold Ella better than me. And she's a _very_ nice lass." He winked.

So it was like that. Still...

"But I don't know h–"

"And away we go."

Before the weasel could protest further, the hares marched him into Cavern Hole and prodded onto a stand in the center of the room. Everybeast stared at him, and he began to sweat. Wonderful. He'd moved on to the next stage of the fever. He'd be dead before the end of the trial.

Dominic peered around, scrubbing at his brow with the back of his paw, and saw Juniper stationed beside Melian – the ottermaid lifted Ella's paw and waved it in his direction. The weasel felt himself bristling.

"Dominic Wright." His gaze focused on the dratted bird from the gaol who hadn't been able to confirm _any_ of his story. Dominic had an intense desire to kick the ball of feathers across the room, but some small measure of self-preservation stayed his footpaw. The Warden puffed up his feathers as he strutted forward. "You stand accused of the murder of Abbess Dittany. You will be prosecuted by the Skipper of Otters and Lady Duskwatcher, an ambassador from the Flying Fox tribes of the Southern Isles, will preside. You have a right to any reasonable form of representation if you wish it. Do you?"

The heat had become stifling. He tugged at the bowtie around his neck again, then froze, an idea smacking into him with the force of a plague-induced spasm. "Yes. Yes, I want the Skipper of Otters to represent me!"

Skipper snorted. "Think again, weasel. 'E said 'reasonable', not 'mental'."

"But you..." He wrung his paws, eyes darting to and fro until they settled on Juniper. "I..."

The otter smiled and nodded, his eyes closed, giving a humble appearance. "Don't worry, Dom." He said this with a reassuring smile, and though it wasn't enough to calm the weasel completely, it provided a palliative for his fraying nerves.

"I'll take the case!" Juniper declared.

Dominic _knew_ his friend wouldn't let him down.


	93. The Trial

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 92. The Trial  
**

_by Juniper_

There wasn't much Juniper knew about court proceedings. The problem lay with the fact that he couldn't quite remember any play that had a good trial scene. It seemed best fitting for a mystery, but most of the mysteries the otter could recall were simply filled with interrogations, accusations, and confessions. Juniper suppressed a growing frown as his mind went through as many titles as he could manage. _Twelve Angry Beasts_ was what he was looking for, but the otter had been little more than a pup when Hector had put on the show. He could barely even remember what it was about. The best he could manage was recalling how he once watched the Gergregs play a game where they yelled "Objection!" at each other a lot, but Juniper had never been invited to play, and he couldn't quite remember the mechanics of the game, so there was no knowledge to be gleaned there.

Even so, Juniper rose from his seat with a hearty resolution. As unfamiliar as he was with courtroom drama, he'd do the best he could, even if it meant making it up on the fly.

"Your Honor, if it pleases the court," he began, a sudden thrill traveling up his spine as he used the phrase "pleases the court", which was something he felt made him feel very professional, "I'd like to start off by stating my relationship with the defendant."

The big bat nodded, sending another thrill down the otter's spine, though this one possessed a negative connotation. My, but was that an ugly creature.

"My name is Juniper Dantor of Holt Aldo. I grew up with the defendant and is his best friend. Dominic, is this true?"

The weasel shifted in his chair as he cast a yearning glance towards Ella. "I think so!"

"Ye think so?" Skipper scoffed.

"I mean, I don't remember!"

" 'Ow can y'not remember?" one of the Long Patrol hares called out. "Seems bally inconceivable not bein' able t' remember a chap bein' your best friend, wot!"

"My apologies, Your Honor," Juniper said with his head bowed. "I just remembered. I must bring to light a serious medical condition my friend is currently suffering."

"Go on," Duskwatcher said.

Juniper waited for the echo, as that was expected of the stereotypical bat archetype. All eyes focused on Juniper in the pregnant pause, before he realized the echo would not come. His muzzle flushed. "Ah, sorry. Your Honor, Dominic Wright suffers from amnesia."

The audience erupted in a fit of murmuring, and Juniper basked in their unintelligible gossip. What great effect! "I am indeed the defendant's best friend. I grew up with him, and so I know most everything about him. Therefore, you can rest assured knowing that I will speak in the defendant's best interest.

"Mr. Wright," Juniper continued, turning to the weasel. His paws were held behind his back and he paced in front of the stand because he thought it was customary now that he was the poor chap's lawyer. "Can you please spell your name for the court?"

"D-O-M-I-N-I-C," Dominic said.

Juniper paused mid pace. " 'C'? Since when did you start spelling your name with a 'C'?"

"Umm, I believe I always have."

Juniper waved a paw in the direction of the reporter. "Your Honor, I'd like to have that spelling stricken from the records. Let it stand that the defendant's name is spelt D-O-M-I-N-I-Q-U-E."

A small chuckle spread through the audience.

" 'Q-U-E'?" Dominique repeated. His fur was bristling and turning a nice rosy shade. "But … but that's a jill's name! I _know_ I'm not a jill. Damn these pants, they're confusing everybeast! Look!"

"Dominique, please!" Juniper called out, shielding his eyes amidst the gasps that rang through the hall. "Pull your trousers back up. Nobeast is denying you're a jack."

"Besides," Dominique continued. "Dominic with a 'Q-U-E'? Isn't that pronounced Domi-_neek_?"

The paw Juniper had used as a shield was now rubbing his muzzle in thought. "I wondered why you were suddenly calling yourself Domi-_nick_."

"So, which is it, is it?" Duskwatcher asked. She hadn't said the echo, but Juniper thought it was better there anyway, seeing as how she was a bat and all.

Dominique stammered, looking from the otter to the bat, and then back again at the otter. He sighed a heavy sigh. "I guess it's Dominique."

"No, it's okay," Juniper said. "You can be Dominic if you want."

"Really? Then yes, I guess I'll be Dominic. It's what I'm most comfortable with."

"Let it stand that the defendant wishes to be called Dominic, spelled D-O-M-I-N-I-C."

The audience murmured, and Juniper smiled. Satisfied with his flawless set-up of the scene, creating the perfect amount of faith in himself and doubt in Dominic, the otter continued. "Dominic Wright, you are suspected of participating involvement in the mysterious case of the murder of Abbess Dittany. How do you plead?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't do it. Don't kill me please, I have a daughter!" He looked around nervously, then focused on Juniper. "Like that?"

"Not quite. Guilty or not guilty."

"Not guilty! Of what, again?"

"Murdering Abbess Dittany," Juniper answered.

"Yes, that's it. Not guilty!" the weasel proclaimed.

"The defense stands."

"Thank you, Mr. Dantor," the bat said. "You may be seated. Skipper? Please take the stand."

The Skipper of Otters cleared his throat and stood. His face was hard and grim. "I understand, weasel, that Dittany's death was not the only murder in the abbey that night. Do you recall a certain otter?"

"What otter? I didn't kill an otter!"

"Weasel, I have eye-witness accounts of you stabbin' poor Vincent t'death. Do you deny this?"

"I do!"

"Pryce?"

"Aye, that's th'one. 'E killed me brother," an otter standing near the entrance to Cavern Hole called out. Several other paws shot up, confirming.

"So we got ye on one murder, at least. An' I've talked t'most everybeast 'ere that's suspected of being involved with the Abbess an' her death. Th' way you handled yerself in yer interrogation was a red flag t'me. Lazuleep?"

The big rat nodded. "Aye, never seen a beast so flustered in me life."

"So just admit it, weasel."

"I cannot," Dominic said firmly, "because I didn't stab him." He paused. "I used arrows."

"You can still stab with an arrow," Juniper offered.

"June!" the weasel hissed. "Not helping!"

"That's not how I remember it!" somebeast shouted.

"So now you're the expert?" Dominic snapped. He was standing, shaking. His fur was completely on edge, and his voice was as steady as an actor in front of his first crowd. "Did you kill the abbess, then? You seem to know so much! Why are you trying to pin it on _me_? Look around you! What is all this? You're persecuting dozens of beasts over a stupid, mindless killing! Just because she was some uppity abbess somehow means she meant more than any of our lives did? Because one beast died who had it coming, you lot had to lose your heads and ruin how many other lives? My own brother turned on me! Because you couldn't get your bloody facts straight and decided to start having us arrested left and right! I almost found a wife, a mother for my daughter, and she turned me in as well, because I trusted her! But it's all ruined because of your stupid wicking politics. Maybe I killed the Abbess. Maybe I didn't. I don't know! But I sure as hellgates know that if I had the chance, I would, just for putting me through all this this past week. I'd want to know I deserved it."

"Dominic, please," Juniper murmured, quiet enough for the weasel to continue uninterrupted.

"I walked past rows of corpses looking for my daughter that night, and not one of them was your precious abbess. Where's the trial to find their murderer? How many lives are you going to ruin when you get around to _that_?"

"Dominic," Juniper said in an attempt to regaining control. "Please settle down. I remember. I remember a silhouette on the abbey lawns lighting the firestick that hit the gatehouse. It had a tail. Point is, there was more than one beast involved. Finding the abbess's murderer is key to unraveling the events of that fateful night. We will seek justice for them in due time. As of right now, we must find the beast who killed the abbess."

Dominic sat back down in a huff.

Skipper gave Dominic a hard look. "Yes, thankee for that speech. But as June said, right now we're dealin' with Dittany. Did you kill her?"

"No!"

"Objection, Your Honor!" Juniper called out. "My client has amnesia, he can't be trusted!"

"That's right! … Wait …"

"Your Honor," Juniper said, rising. "If it pleases the court, you can see that my client is very distressed, and has been ever since Skipper took the stand. May I continue the trial?"

The bat considered this, then nodded her head. Skipper sat down with a grumble.

Juniper approached the stand, but not before sharing a hidden wink with Melian. "Dominic, do you remember the events of that night?"

"As best as I can, yes."

"Do you remember killing Abbess Dittany?"

"No!"

Juniper formed his next question carefully. "Do you remember all events of that night perfectly?"

Dominic hesitated. "I … I think so."

"May I please direct the weasel's attention to the jill, Ella, who may or may not be Mr. Wright's daughter?"

Dominic looked in her direction. Melian waved her paw his way.

"I'll ask again. Do you remember all events of that night perfectly, without flaw?"

"… No."

"Then how can you say you do not remember killing Abbess Dittany?"

The weasel stammered; the audience held silent in utter suspense.

"One more time. Do you remember killing Abbess Dittany?"

The weasel opened his mouth to reply….


	94. Your Shadow At Evening

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 93. Your Shadow At Evening  
**

_by Fjord  
_

The silence crawled down from the witness stand and slithered amongst the gathered masses like a snake, nobeast daring to breathe lest he draw its fangs. For just a blink, Fjord _saw_ the vile thing, slinking between the benches, flicking out its tongue to taste each creature it passed, but always refocusing its hungry eyes on him.

"You will need to answer Mr. Dantor's question, Mr. Wright." Duskwatcher broke the spell, and the adder resolved into a pattern of yellow and green tunics.

A pregnant pause followed, giving birth to a sensation that Fjord's stomach was tying itself up into knots in preparation for the gallows. He wondered if his other organs would be committing equally figurative suicides in the near future, what with the way his lungs were displaying a distinct lack of interest in inflating.

He forced himself to breathe and glanced at Cecil. The fur on the nape of the squirrel's neck puffed out like a startled wildcat's tail, and his jaw was clenched tight enough to gnaw through granite. Fjord moved one paw to rest on his friend's forearm, chiding himself for his own trepidation and putting on his finest impression of a carefree comrade.

"You look like you've just swallowed one of Ms. Aya's stone scones, Cec. Stiff upper lip, wot? Skipper will get the blighter if he's the–"

"I..." Dominic's breathy squeak interrupted. "Can I use the privy?"

"The lavatory will have to wait," came Juniper's prim response.

The comforting paw of friendship turned to the agonizing vice of surprise as every fiber in the dancer's body contracted at once, his head whirling around faster than a firewhip. The otter had his arms folded, the picture of parental exasperation, while the weasel fidgeted to vex the feathers off a plover with a podiatric tic.

Those words... he'd heard those words before – that differentiation from high to low brow.

_"Hullo? They said the privy was up here. Is this..." An otter poked his head into the room, and Fjord froze in the act of shaking a severe claw at Dittany. "Ooo... what's going on? Hey! You're that hare I saw on the other stage earlier. Are you two rehearsing for something after our play? Don't mind me. Carry on."_

"Th' lavatory is three doors down on your left," Dittany replied with all the warmth of a Highland gale. "Now, please leave. Both o' you."

"I'm not leaving until you give me that letter, miss," the dancer declared, holding out his paw. "Give it here, or I shall have to become very_ firm with you."_

"Ha! You become firm with every maid you set your glad eye on, Mr. Hollyhocks. That's precisely your problem."

"Ah! So, it's The Life and Minds of Tim Wadsworth_? We did that one a couple of seasons ago, but who's playing Tim's Consc–"_

"I'm through discussing this. If you're not gettin' out, then I am," Dittany chittered.

"We've been through this before, miss," Fjord returned, stepping to block her path. "In fact... I recall it as if it were a room not twenty-pace hence and one less knock 'round the noggin ago, wot? Now–"

"You're hurting me, Fjord," Cecil hissed, grappling with the hare's claws while trying to pull away.

Eyes wide, Fjord released his friend and stared at him, brain struggling toward some reply that at least adhered to the commonly accepted rules of language. "It was June."

"What of him?" the bard asked, brows drawn with an accompanying frown. "Fjord? Are you listening to me?"

"It was June," he repeated. "But, wot was I–"

"I understand that might be a difficult question for a beast with your condition," Juniper boomed, his light baritone projecting over the assembled masses. "So, perhaps you can answer something easier first: Do you remember a knife? Not that we admit this knife exists, Your Honor."

"A knife?"

"Yes." The otter coughed. "You might have used this theoretical knife in self-defense against a certain otter."

"You said I used arrows!"

"Answer the question, Mr. Wright. If this knife were to exist, it might have been a fancy thing with a gold hilt."

Fjord ears shot up at that, puncturing the pocket of memories collected above his head, and sending the lot crashing down upon him in one viscous rush of vomit-inducing hysteria.

_"You don't deserve her, you spineless rabbit!" Dittany snarled, trying to shove past him. "Now th' both o' you step aside. I won't tell you again, Mr. Hollyhocks: You're not gettin' this letter 'til you've earned it."_

"Ye'd let her call ye spineless?" Juniper wondered, a sneer accompanying the peculiar new accent. "What sort o' beast are ye, then?"

Fjord's cheeks burned with embarrassment, and his head pounded, the pain emanating from where it had made an intimate acquaintance with the corridor some two minutes ago. "S-stay right where you are, miss!" He grabbed her shoulders and shoved her back with all his might.

With a yelp, the squirrelmaid stumbled backwards, crashing into the wall. Mary's letter fluttered from her grasp, but she snatched it up again, stuffing it in her habit before the fire dancer could properly carpe_ the _diem_._

"How dare you!" she sputtered, grabbing an arrow from the quiver in the corner and leveling it at Fjord. She reiterated when this did not appear sufficiently censorious, "How dare_ you!"_

"How dare you_!" Fjord rejoined in the most unutterably clever retort of the season. "I-I won't stand for this sort of treatment." He found his words becoming louder with each passing syllable. "I want that letter, and you will give it to me this instant!"_

"That's more like it, matey," the otter encouraged, looming over his shoulder. "Now, show her ye mean business, eh?" Fjord felt something pressed into his paw. He glanced down to find an ornate knife – the golden handle detailed with the likeness of a serpent coiled to strike – clutched there.

"Wot?" He brought the weapon up, and Dittany gasped.

"Dominic Wright, you will return to the witness stand this instant!" A piercing chirrup cut through the dancer's horrifying haze of memories with all the subtlety of Cluny on the warpath.

"Fjord." Cecil prodded his arm with more vigor than politeness warranted. The hare wanted to reply, but he couldn't, eyes drawn inexorably toward the drama unfolding at the center of the room, by which everybeast _save_ Cecil Sassafras sat riveted.

"Please! I'm going to be sick!" Dominic whined as two hares dragged him back to the stand.

"It's all right, Dominic," Juniper soothed. "I understand. I understand everything you're going through. You just need to–"

_"–give the screamin' harpy what she deserves, matey," Juniper cajoled. "She's been sneerin' at ye since the first, lookin' down on ye from her pedestal, but what's she got t'stand on? Lot o' sticks ye could set fire to quick as ye like."_

"Th-that's right," Fjord agreed after a moment, glaring beyond the blade to the rigid squirrelmaid. "You're a bally hypocrite to judge me on affairs of the heart and ethics, miss, when you've the nerve to carry on with a half-rate musician who's had more gels flitting through his heart and songs than-than motes through a sunbeam!" He jabbed the knife at her for emphasis and Dittany flinched, the arrow in her paw twitching spasmodically. "You_, Ms. Dittany, should be pawing over your habit in shame and disgrace._

"I_ haven't any restraint? Pish! _You're_ one to talk about breaking vows!"_

The Abbess' worried visage hardened to something more savage as she brandished her arrow at him. "That is completely different, you philanderin' miscreant. I'm_ not th' Whore o' Noonvale incarnate!"_

"Kill the bitch."

Just three words.

Until that moment, the most powerful, life-altering three words Fjord had ever heard were 'I love you', but as Juniper's feral bark crashed into him – through him – he felt compelled to act as surely as if the order had sprung from his own lips. The dancer bared his teeth and lunged at Dittany. With a shout, she dodged and made to stab him in return with her arrow. Fjord caught the shaft with his free paw as he spun toward her.

"Stop! Fjord, stop this!"

"You've been doing every bloody thing in your power to belittle me since I came here, Dittany!" he snarled, ripping the arrow from her grasp and throwing it away.

"Do it!" the otter commanded. "What are ye waitin' fer?"

"Shut up, you psychotic blaggard! What in Hellgates is your problem?" Dittany screamed at the actor as she retreated to the corner, Fjord advancing with Juniper treading in his shadow. The Abbess' paws scrabbled across her self-imposed prison.

"You."

Fjord drove the blade into her side.

The hare stared down at his shaking paws, mouth agape, and tears searing across his vision. Any remaining hopes for the upper lip remaining stiff flew from his mind as bats before a peck of owls.

"Fjord!" Cecil gripped his shoulder.

"Is that really _all_ you can remember, Mr. Wright?" Juniper pressed, and Fjord forced himself to look up. "Surely there's... more than just the knife?" His tone held the delicate persuasion of a pike asking a minnow 'round for supper.

_Another boom from outside combined with Dittany's shriek to form a teeth-rattling slap of reality._

I just stabbed her. I just stabbed the Abbess, Cecil's...__

Fjord felt a warm, sticky something oozing over his paw, but he could not tear his eyes away from the squirrelmaid's stricken visage. Her fiery red fur had lost its shine as thick beads of sweat from her brow mingled with the tears coursing down her cheeks.

"M-Ms. Dittany, I d-don't–"

She came to life all at once, delivering a powerful uppercut followed by a thrust that sent him stumbling backward. His head cracked against the tall bedpost, and he slumped to the floor, the bloody knife still clutched in his paw. "Ms. Dittany, I'm... s-sorry," he mumbled as the Abbess struggled toward the corridor, Juniper, neither helping nor hindering her escape.

"What're ye doin', Tim?" he asked Fjord instead. "Lyin' there all prim an' proper? Get up! Finish the job b'fore the bint raises the whole house!"

"Keep away from me!" the dancer cried, scrambling to his footpaws and lurching out the door.

"Don't leave the knife," Juniper tutted, scooping up the weapon and following at a leisurely trot.

Fjord spotted Dittany staggering along the hall, one paw against the wall, the other clamped over her side where a dark stain had begun spreading toward the lower hem of her habit. "Ms. Dittany, wait! I'm sorry! Please, let me help you!"

He hurried forward and caught up with her as she descended the first stair leading to the main floor. "Stay back!" she ordered as he reached for her. "L-lunatic!"

"I didn't know... It was..." Fjord tried to say, all reasonable excuses flitting away to parts unknown. "Please, you'll hurt yourself even more," he managed instead.

"Ha!"

"Oi!" Both creatures in the stairwell started. Looking around, Fjord saw the otter who stood with one paw on his hip and the other holding the knife. He glared past the hare at squirrelmaid with a distinct lack of gruntlement. "Ye know what ye need t'do, Tim. Destroy her, or she'll ruin everything!"

"You're completely mental!"

"Pot... an' kettle... black," Dittany groaned, pressing both paws against her wound.

"Please, let's get you to–"

The otter's shove came as a surprise as the hare turned his attention back to the squirrelmaid. On instinct, he flailed his arms, slapping her across the face and forcing her back in the process... onto a level floor that didn't exist. Fjord's pin-wheeling paws managed to grasp the banister, but Dittany wasn't so lucky. She tripped, breath too short to even scream before she tumbled down the stairs, meaty thwacks and crunches echoing in her wake.

"Heheh!" Juniper snickered as Fjord flopped over to gape at him. "The perfect–"

"Murder!"

Fjord sprang to his footpaws, heart pounding, whiskers aquiver, and every muscle straining like the participants in the annual Redwallian Noodle Festival.

"That is indeed the charge being levied, Mr. Hollyhocks," Duskwatcher intoned, swiveling her head in his direction. "I would, however, insist that you refrain from interrupting the proceedings when you come to such revelations."

"Fjord, what are you doing?" Cecil whispered, tugging at his trousers.

"Watch it!", "That was my nose!", and "Muskin' bobhead!" were the replies the bard received as the hare vaulted forward, trampling the paws, tails, and heads of various beasts in his haste to reach the center of Cavern Hole.

"June! I have to–" He was cut off as somebeast grasped his footpaws, tripping him up and sending him muzzle-first into the front bench. Seconds later, somebeast grabbed his ears and hauled him up.

"Stand down, Hollyhocks," Cheesewright commanded as the dancer began to struggle, yanking his ears up higher and forcing him to perform an impromptu relevé.

"Colonel Sharpe, I hardly think such force is warranted," the judge interjected and the pressure eased with a disapproving snort from behind.

"Your Honor," Juniper inserted smoothly, "a moment to confer with my distressed colleague. At such a crucial juncture in the trial any detail may be critical."

The bat's wings rustled for a moment as she eyed first the otter, then the hare. "Granted. Be swift, though, Mr. Dantor... the hour grows darker within these walls." She added, "And Colonel, release Mr. Hollyhocks."

"Yes, marm," he grumbled, the tone not unlike that of a petulant leveret denied the right to paint his room an eye-watering shade of orange. Cheesewright let go and thrust Fjord forward.

"That was great!" Juniper whispered as he sauntered over. "The tension building up, the defendant ready to snap, and then a voice from the crowd with a dramatic proclamation. Ah, Fj, I wish Hector could be watching this. You wanted a word, though?"

"A word?" Fjord murmured, grasping the otter's vest and jerking him down to speak directly into his tiny ear. "A _word_! I think not, sah. Several paragraphs stretching out to a full page, I shouldn't wonder, wot!"

"Mm... maybe you should stage whisper, then," Juniper advised. "Wouldn't want the audience to miss any–"

"We're the murderers!" the hare hissed. "You... I... We killed her. We killed Abbess Dittany! Oh, 'Gates!"

"Calm down, Fj. What do you mean?"

"Wot do I... Don't you _remember_? The lavatories, and the knife, and the stairs, and you-you... I couldn't stop, dash it!" With a strangled sob, the hare buried his muzzle in the crook of otter's neck.

Yes. Stiff upper lips had taken an indefinite holiday.

"There, there," the actor reassured, patting Fjord's back. "Shh... I'll take care of it. Sit down now, and I'll sort it all out."

"You-you'll tell them?" He gulped and managed to raise his head enough to look into the otter's murky eyes.

Juniper blinked. "Tell them? Of course not. I'm the hero, and it's much more interesting if Dom did it. Granted, you as the murderer is a wild twist, and I like that you're trying to bring my character into a whole new light, but it's really a little too much to be believable. Maybe you could've witnessed it, though. Yes... I'll call you to the stand in a minute."

"W-wot? You can't do that!" Fjord's brow furrowed. "He's innocent. We're the ones who did it. That-that's _wrong_."

"That's theatre."

The hare bristled. "You're condemning a chap to gaol or even _death_ for a crime he didn't commit just for the sake of some ridiculous fantasy you've got stuffed into that empty space betwixt your ears? That's the most heartless... That's even worse than your parents selling you into slavery for a scrap and a show!"

Juniper's face took on the character of a gel who'd been assured by her intended that her striped trousers did, indeed, make her look a bit on the hefty side of pleasantly plump. His every word dripped venom. "Where would you get _that_ wild idea?"

"You told me, sah."

"I most certainly did not, _sah!_ I ran away to join Hector's Acting Troupe."

"Tosh! That's not what you said before."

"I think I know what happened in my past, _sah_. Now if you please, there's a trial to continue."

"If you won't tell them, I will! Cecil should know the... Oh, 'Gates, Cecil." Fjord deflated with a groan, head sinking back to rest on the otter's shoulder. "Cecil's going to hate me. And Mary? What will Mary think?"

"Look, it's an interesting angle, but I don't like it, and I don't think the audience will, either," Juniper rumbled. "It's mostly woodlanders here, so they'll want to see a vermin take the fall. 'Give the audience what they want or you're liable to get laughed off the stage.' Every actor knows that! Now, I know we've had our little comedic moments – teaching Silver about mating and the like – but we've kept it more or less a drama. We need a smart and snappy message for it to really sink in: 'Vermin are evil; woodlanders are good.' Simple. Universal."

"I won't let you do this!" Fjord warned, the fiery fighting spirit of the Hollyhocks of old flaring in his breast as he jerked away.

"I'd like to see you stop me," Juniper challenged with a derisive snort. "I'm the lead. You're just a supporting character."

"Mr. Dantor? Mr. Hollyhocks?" Duskwatcher's ethereal lilt broke over them in a small wave of disapproval. "Are you finished?"

"No!"

"Yes."

"Well, which is it?" the Warden squawked. "We must return to the trial."

"Will you, or will you not tell the truth, sah?" Fjord demanded low, grasping Juniper's vest again and leaning toward him.

The actor raised an eyebrow and cocked his head to the side, staring for a long moment. Then, a smile of humility and contrition wended its way along his battered maw. With the utmost sincerity, he said, "I think I understand now, Fj. I'm sorry. I'll do what needs doing." He patted the hare's paws. "You just leave it to good old June."

Fjord let loose a bone-jellying sigh and sagged, his grip on the insane otter the only thing holding him up.

"Would you two chaps like a moment alone?" Cheesewright's scoff jolted the pair apart. The fire dancer scrubbed at his cheeks with the back of his paw and trudged up the aisle to his seat beside Cecil. It was thoroughly selfish, but he would enjoy the squirrel's empathetic presence while he could.

"Would you care to explain that... scene, Mr. Dantor?" Skipper queried once Fjord had re-wedged himself between the bard and a portly mouse.

"Yes," Juniper agreed. "Yes, indeed. Your Honor, ladies and gentlebeasts here assembled, some disturbing new evidence has come to light; evidence that will, I fear, shock and awe the court with its revelatory power."

"And Mr. Hollyhocks provided this evidence, did he?" Skipper demanded.

"Fjord, what happened? Did you remember something about Dittany?" Cecil's claws sunk into Fjord's fur, dimpling the skin beneath and threatening blood if a satisfactory answer were not forthcoming.

The hare couldn't call the apology to his lips. It wouldn't be enough. It could _never_ be enough.

"Indeed." Juniper looked at Dominic and pouted. "Dom, I'm sorry, but Mr. Hollyhocks..."

"Please don't hate me, old top," Fjord begged, covering his eyes and bowing his head.

"Mr. Hollyhocks witnessed Dominic Wright stab the defenseless Abbess Dittany and shove her down the dormitory stairwell with his own eyes!"

"_Wot!_"

Bellows of outrage drowned the hare's protest.

"Order!" The Warden screeched, flapping his wings as beasts rose and shouted, some trying to clamber forward to attack the confused weasel upon the stand. Cheesewright and his hares fanned out, fending off justice-minding beats of the more active variety.

"That's a bally lie!" Fjord cried. "He's lying, Cecil!" But the squirrel was amongst those bound and determined to kill Dominic where he stood. "Cecil, stop!" The hare leapt for and managed to seize the bard's bushy tail.

"Get off!" Cecil snapped, kicking out and catching Fjord a powerful blow to the gut. The dancer gasped, letting go as his paws flew to his abused midsection. Dashed unsporting, and at this rate he was going to–

"_Silence!_" A whirlwind swept through Cavern Hole, toppling those closest to the center, including the solicitors, Warden, LPers, and Dominic Wright. "You will be _silent_!"

Duskwatcher had grown to fill a space thrice her original size, black eyes reflecting the swirl of torchlight she had set dancing. Here was the wolf, the monster, they had all suspected lurking beneath those ancient wrinkles. Just as swiftly as it had come, the bat's ire and size diminished.

"Friends, please quiet yourselves, we must conduct this trial as it was meant: Fairly. I will tolerate no further interruptions from the–"

"Skipper!"

Much as he wished the voice, and the conviction it held, had been his own, Fjord could only join the other creatures in turning toward the entrance of Cavern Hole where Mary Hollyhocks stood, fur blazing in a golden halo around her willowy frame.

"The kits!" she cried. "The woodlander kits! They're gone! They're all _gone_!"


	95. The Voice of Reason

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

**Chapter 95. The Voice of Reason  
**

_by Cecil  
_

Cecil didn't know what was happening.

He couldn't help himself. He was screaming, growing louder and louder with every passing heartbeat as he struggled to push through the raging crowd of beasts and get at Dittany's murderer. Woodlanders around him shouted of their supremacy, of how vermin were nothing more than the murdering scoundrels that would kill their own mothers for no reason at all, while the vermin defended themselves with arguments of speciesism and an unfair trial.

Cecil simply yelled.

Standing only a few tail-lengths in front of him was Dittany's murderer, a beast he had never met before in his life, and a vermin no less. The weasel had taken everything from him, everything that had ever mattered to him, and the bard was curious as to how much that would affect the size of the bruises he was going to punch into the vermin's body before the beast was hanged. The squirrel grunted as he sidled between a fox and otter about to engage each other in a brawl and got closer to the murderer. "He's lying!" somebeast called from behind him. Cecil smirked. It was probably just some vermin, complaining at how the trial had ended. Had they not heard Fjord's testimony when Juniper had said it?

Somebeast grabbed his tail.

"Get off!" He snapped, punching Fjord in his midsection.

"_Silence!_ You will be _silent!_" Duskwatcher's voice swept through Cavern Hole.

Cecil stopped.

"He's lying, Cecil," Fjord whispered in his ear as Duskwatcher tried to keep the peace.

The squirrel didn't know what to think as the fire dancer yanked him around and looked deep into his eyes, seeming to burn holes in the bard's skull with his wild look as he repeated the words over and over again. Cecil stared back at him, choking back any words he could possibly say. But… but Juniper had said Dominic was guilty. He was the hero of the story, how could he lie?

"Cecil, I-"

"Skipper!" somebeast cut him off. Cecil pried his eyes away from Fjord, looking to where Mary Hollyhocks stood at the door, panting heavily as if she had seen a ghost. "The kits! The woodlander kits! They're gone! They're all _gone_!"

-.0.-

Cecil couldn't help but wonder at how long the madness that had ensued after the hare's statement had lasted. Had it been five minutes? Ten? Maybe fifteen? No matter how long pandemonium had engulfed Cavern Hole, beasts screaming and yelling, brawling for no apparent reason, the squirrel was thankful that he had somehow managed to avoid harm, unlike the twelve beasts who were now in the infirmary and the three others who had had to be locked up to prevent further harm to some creatures' ribs.

Cecil looked around him at the courtroom, which had been cleared of everybeast except for a select few, and tried his best to soak in everything that was being said. Skipper had personally asked for him to be in the meeting, which made sense as he _was_ his spy. Fjord had managed to sneak in as well, and even Juniper had somehow managed to gain entry before leaving to take Dominic back to the holding cells.

"So, they were-"

"Taken?" Skipper finished Forerat Lazuleep's sentence for him.

Mary nodded. "Yes. I went to check up on them, and they weren't in their dormitories or outside. Then I found Brother Bartholomew unconscious and the east wall gate was opened." She pointed to Cecil. "I'm afraid it might be the same group who ran into Mr. Sassafras in Mossflower Woods."

Cecil tried hard not to let himself notice the cringe Fjord gave from not being mentioned by his wife. "Err, yes…" the squirrel answered, clearing his throat, "It may very well be them. Miss Aya managed to… eh… kill one of them, a brute named Trobes, but the others, Mordred and Trothfang, escaped. It is entirely possible that they could have returned."

Lazuleep shook his head. "We shouldn't jump to conclusions. It could end badly for everybeast involved."

A stoat, the same one who had been with Mr. Honeysuckle at the crime scene, sitting beside the rat, nodded. "Aye, if'n we go after the wrong party 'stead o' th' right one, th' blighters could end up gettin' away without us even bein' near t' 'em."

Skipper raised an eyebrow. "If ye don't mind me askin', who in the blazes are ye? I don't remember askin' fer any stoats."

The vermin smiled a crooked smile. "My 'pologies, sir," he said. "Name's Lemik, Lemik Allan. I'm a… well, yew could say… servant o' Lady Willa's. She's busy checkin' up on these 'disappearances,' an' she asked me t' show up in 'er stead. Surely ya don't mind, sir, I'm only followin' orders."

"You… _you_ work for Lady Willa?" Mary asked in disbelief.

Lemik chuckled. "Aye, she would say I'm part squirrel if'n ya asked 'er."

"Back on topic," Skipper said, getting everybeast back onto the subject at paw. "As our only suspects are th' two vermin Cecil mentioned, an' they _'ave_ already taken three from us before, we c'n only assume they did it. Cecil, lad, do ye 'ave any idea where they might be?"

Cecil shook his head, dismayed. "A tavern in Veil Village, I believe, but it was more of a holding facility than a base of operations. And after being found once, I doubt they would return."

Skipper scowled. "If only it _were_ that easy," he said. "I'll get a couple o' me otters t' check around it, see if they c'n find anythin' suspicious. In th' meantime, what we need is some facts: Where are they an' what do they want with th' Dibbuns?"

As if on cue, the door of the makeshift courtroom burst open and Lady Willa strode inside. She quickly took a seat next to Lemik, nodding her regards to the stoat. She took a breath and turned to Skipper. "My scouts spotted vermin herding a pack of kits to the east in a patch of woodlands not too far from here," she said quickly. "They were too many, at least two score, for just my beasts so we couldn't do anything right away, but we must send a party out to rescue the kits!"

The otter chieftain growled. "Two score? Heh, that's nothin'. We don't need no party, me an' me otters will take care o' 'em ourselves."

The stoat next to him chuckled. "Ye'll be as good as dead if'n ya do that, Skip." He turned to Willa. "If my lady would be so kind as t' allow me th' use o' some o' her squirrels, I'll gladly accompany ya. Maybe then, we'll actually help th' kits 'stead o' hurtin' 'em."

Before either Skipper or Willa could respond, Lazuleep cut in. "Skipper, I don't believe that it would be a wise decision if you left the abbey. The trials are still incomplete and, with the kitnappings, everybeast is likely to be in a panic. It would be prudent if you stayed so that you were able to keep the peace and prevent any further mayhem from erupting. I shall go in your stead."

Cecil couldn't help but to speak up himself. "Skipper, as much as I have trouble ever agreeing with some vermin, I believe that he is right."

Skipper scowled. He turned to Lazuleep. "Grr… alright, ye do it. An' find any able-bodied beasts willin' t' go an' 'elp ye!"

"I shall assist you Skipper, and, please, consider my scouts your own, Forerat," Willa replied.

Lazuleep nodded. "Thank you. I'll leave within the hour." He rose to leave. "Mr. Allan, you are still obliged to come if you wish."

"O' course," Lemik said faintly. He followed the rat's example.

"Then this meetin's closed," Skipper announced. The otter scowled and got up to leave.

Cecil quickly followed suit as everybeast in Cavern Hole filed out of the room. The squirrel quickly pushed past the few beasts in his way and caught up to Skipper, trailing a few tail-lengths behind him before allowing himself to get next to the chieftain. "I would like to help in the current events," he said simply. "I believe that because I am involved already, I could be of some use."

"No," Skipper answered just as fast as Cecil had asked. "Now that we know where they are, this doesn't concern ye anymore."

"What?" Cecil huffed. "It concerns me just as much as it does everybeast in that room. I know who these beasts are; I know their faces, what they are like. From what I can gather, I am the most important beast in this investigation. All that I wish is that I be allowed to accompany the Forerat and-"

"As I said, lad: no."

"B-b-but why?" Cecil demanded. "I could help them-"

The otter cut in once again. "Help 'em? By trippin' up an' slowin' 'em down. Ye could let those kitnappers get away just by gettin' yer trousers stuck in a briar fer too long."

Cecil crossed his arms. "I will have you know that that has only happened once and I was only stuck for a mere two minutes. And, thankfully, it was only a small rip I had to mend that day." He stopped for a moment. "Fjord, he told me that Juniper was lying. That Dominic was not guilty."

Skipper turned his head. "Hmm?"

"If what Fjord says is true, I believe that Dominic is innocent and that the only suspects left in Dittany's murder are the kitnappers. And I believe Fjord. What reason would he have to lie about his own testimony?" Cecil said. "That means that the kitnappers had to have killed Dittany."

"An' ye jist-" the otter tried to say.

"I wish to know why. I wish to know the truth," the squirrel answered.

"Ye will know th' truth, lad," Skipper replied, "once Lazuleep comes back with those vermin in chains."

Cecil scowled. "Very well, Skipper," he spat, "I shall go with or without your permission. I shall rescue those kits and find the truth I need one way or the other."

Skipper turned and faced the squirrel. "Yer a bard, lad, not a hero. Do ye really think that _yew_ c'n stop two score beasts by yerself? Times are changin', lad. Yer not Martin th' Warrior."

"Nor do I think I am," Cecil replied, "but that does not mean I cannot try." With that, the squirrel whirled about, leaving the Skipper of Otters in his wake as he made his way toward his dormitory.

-.0.-

It was but the work of the moment for the bard to stuff a change of clothes and a few morsels of food into a haversack and leave his dormitory once more. Cecil toyed with the wedding ring with his free paw, flipping it between his claws and letting the light dance off of the diamond centerpiece. He clutched it tightly. What did Skipper know? He didn't understand.

The squirrel slung his haversack over his shoulder and sighed. The otter would never understand what it felt like. Nobeast would ever understand. Trying to explain to somebeast how it felt to lose somebeast, somebeast you loved, was like trying to teach a kit to eat his vegetables.

Cecil took another step, about to round the corner in the direction of the Great Hall, and froze. Lady Willa stood in the middle of the corridor, two vermin, Lemik and Mr. Honeysuckle, beside her. As if by some instinct, the squirrel held his breath and pressed himself against the wall, out of view of the three beasts.

"Those fools are almost too easy." Cecil blinked. That was Willa's voice. "I had thought that my announcement would get them to follow our false little trail, but I hadn't expected it to work _that_ fast. The kits are probably long gone by now, already safely tucked away back at Kotir, and, now that that fool Lazuleep will be following the trail Bloody and Pikepaw made, they're never going to be found." The squirrel's eyes widened. False trail? The kits? They took them?

He struggled not to immediately tear away from the wall and inform Skipper. He needed to know more. "Aye." Lemik. "Th' kits won't be found fer now, I kin assure yew o' that."

"You comin' along, then, Willa? Tribbit an' Wetsnout must've got the kits almost there by now. The masters is waitin'," he heard Honeysuckle say.

He could hear the scowl in the squirrelqueen's voice. "Hmph! _Your_ masters, maybe. Those pompous ferrets certainly aren't mine... but they'll serve their purpose. I guess I'll have to deal with them for now, though, until the time is right. Lem, lead them on a merry little chase through the woodlands and see how many you can get rid of, then make your way back to Kotir. If anybeast sees you or suspects you of anything… how good is your knife paw?"

"Faster 'an yer daughter fallin' outta a tree, yer 'ighness."

"Excellent," Willa said. "It's a shame that my own isn't that fast, then maybe sending Skipper to Dark Forest would be a bit easi-"

Cecil heard no more. Paws thrumming loudly against the smooth floor, the squirrel sprinted as fast as he could away from the scene. He needed to find Skipper.

end of week six. 


	96. Blood Will Have Blood

This is the transcription of posts from ten different contestants in an offsite forum. One by one, they'll be eliminated until only the winner remains. Your vote counts! Please join us by clicking "Redwall:Revolutions- Read/Vote" from our user page.

* * *

start of week seven. 

**Chapter 96. Blood Will Have Blood  
**

_by Dànaidh_

"He came at us, hard and quiet. You wouldn't know how close he was 'til he slid right past you, those slimy scales and hard muscle. You couldn't see him work—he was the color of the sky and the water, and bobbin' for a week with your fur burnin' off in clumps, shiverin' from sun fever and blind from the shimmerin' reflection, with your lips all blistered and broken open, dyin' for a drink while you're surrounded by water."

Garrison lit his pipe and brought it to his wrinkled mouth before continuing.

"He'd circle you for hours—days, it seemed—'til he was ready, and he'd move in and break the line, and somebeast would go under and bob back up a crimson corpse, or worse yet: they'd come back up frothin' and coughin' black blood while they screamed and bawled and cried out for their mothers.

"You'd watch that thin red ribbon zig-zag off a ways and disappear into the current, and you'd feel guilty to your heart bones because you were glad it wasn't you missin' a leg, or an arm, or maybe half your face…but you knew, you _knew_ he was comin' back for you. You'd swear your life and honor and wife and children and sweetheart away, if he wouldn't get you, but you knew in your gut that you'd feel that slick slice as he tore into you with those jagged teeth of his, and you'd watch that pale eye go red in blood fury as he tasted the liquid of your life. You'd be scared to death and he'd bite harder, just to spite you, 'cause he _could_, and he _liked_ you scared. That's how he got us.

"Forty-six of us went into the water, when that damned ship went down. There were five of us standin' on the shore the night that we caught and burned him. Nobeast said anythin' when we killed that pike. I got weak and careless in my excitement, and thought the worst was over. Just before dawn the thrashing woke us—all of us—and I stood there and cried like a whelp. The waters were _filled_ with pike, all sizes and colors, leapin' and bitin' and devourin' every other fish and seabird unlucky enough to get caught in their crooked jaws. The smell…blood and bones washed up on that sand until after noon."

Garrison snorted and licked his lips, lowering the paring knife he held in his aged paws. He held up a carved figurine of a whipping pike and gave it to the trembling paws of a young rat, which shrieked in excitement and scampered off with her new toy to show her friends, her gigantic bow bobbing atop her head. Garrison chuckled in small clouds and folded his paws in his lap.

"Don't stop now, Robert!" came a cry from the gathered crowd. "How'd you get away from those fish?"

"Tell us!" another encouraged. Garrison nodded in reply, holding the rounded end of his pipe as tendrils of smoke escaped between his teeth.

The door to the tavern burst open and slammed against the wall with a tremendous crash. A gust of warm air blew through the room, killing a few candle flames and shooing a cloud of smoke escaping from Garrison's pipe backwards into his eyes. A few newborns burst into frightened sobs at the sudden interruption, and their mothers turned their angry gazes to the doorway, ready to cut down whatever beast dared upset their children.

Dànaidh a'Sginnearach stood in the tavern's doorway, a dark, sinewy outline accented with dozens of points in stark contrast to the eerie, green moonlight bleeding across the horizon. One paw held the walking stick parallel to the ground, which he'd used to punch the tavern door open; the other paw held the strap of the knapsack slung diagonal across his chest. He stepped inside the tavern, greeted by blank stares and silence.

"Evenin'," he said. He smiled and cast a cordial wave to the assorted creatures gathered around Garrison's rocking chair. Garrison bit on his pipe and frowned.

"Odd evenin' for a hedge'og to be travelin'," the old weasel spat.

"Aye," Dànaidh said, walking towards the bar. "I've nae far tae go; I'm headed fer th' abbey, but I'm frightful thirsty."

"Something for the traveler, then," the stoat behind the bar nodded, gesturing to an empty stool. "What will you have tonight, my spine-backed friend?"

"Have a glass o' stout?" Dànaidh removed the knapsack from his shoulder and laid it on the empty stool next to him, leaning the walking stick against the lower front of the bar, by his footpaws.

"Naturally," the stoat said. "In Walkin's Tavern, you get what you ask for." He flashed a goofy grin as he slid a filled glass to Dànaidh. "Cross my heart."

"Mmm?" Dànaidh hummed, swallowing a third of the glass's contents.

"It's what I say," the stoat explained. "My business motto…catch of phrase…and hopefully it's memorable enough for these drunken miscreants"—Walkin winked at the dispersing group that laughed at his description of them—"that they'll remember what tavern has class."

Dànaidh lowered his glass. "Jus' as lang as th' liquor flows, I'm happy."

Walkin bowed slightly to the hedgehog. "Down the hatch, then." He held out a paw. "Five copper."

Dànaidh drained the contents of the glass and dropped it heavily against the bar. He reached down into his pocket and pulled out a silver coin, tossing it into Walkin's paw. The stoat twirled the coin, pulling it close to his eye as he squinted and inspected it, then promptly stuck it in his jaw and bit on it. He moved his tongue about, considering the taste, and smiled.

"I'm afraid I can't make change with this…yet…" Walkin said, reaching below the bar for a small notebook. "But I can offer you a voucher—"

"Is that blackroot?" Dànaidh asked, pointing to a large hurricane jar full of gnarled black stalks.

Walkin's countenance fell. "It is," he said, tossing the pad onto the bar next to Dànaidh's paw. "You inclined?"

Dànaidh gestured for the jar with both paws. "Refill th' gless 'n' bring me that."

Walkin shook his head as he lifted the jar and placed it in front of Dànaidh. "They're one for six, or two for ten."

"I'll take it," Dànaidh said, wrapping his paws around the jar. His eyes glistened as he bobbed to and fro, inspecting the rich collection of the addictive plant.

Walkin gawked. "What—_the whole jar?"_ His lower jaw dropped more than he intended.

"Name yer price," Dànaidh said, giving Walkin a dark glare.

Walkin rubbed at his square chin, then snapped a paw. "Six—no, seven gold."

Dànaidh whistled through his teeth. "Seven gold?" He stared at the jar and its ebony contents, turning it slowly with both paws. "Four gold."

"What, is this a debate? Six gold—my initial price. Not a coin less." Walkin folded his arms.

Dànaidh stooped down to the knapsack and fished around for the drawstrings of the purse. As he did, he raised his head and saw some of the assorted tavern dwellers approaching him at an easy pace. Their frowns and snarls told him he wasn't a welcomed visitor. He found the familiar fabric of the purse, withdrew a pawful of coins and counted out six gold, laying them on the bar.

"Sold," Dànaidh said. "Noo, where's mah draft?"

Walkin's left paw descended on the pile of gold coins like a hawk on a salmon, and it disappeared into the dark recesses of his pocket before Dànaidh could blink. His right paw snatched Dànaidh's empty glass and refilled it with the caramel-colored liquid. "Anything else? Something to eat, maybe?"

"I'll sit aboot it," Dànaidh said, wrapping an arm around the jar as he stood from the stool. He took his glass with the other and walked over to a series of tables to the left of the bar. At the nearest table, a squirrel, mouse and badger sat huddled around a crudely drawn map of an unfamiliar terrain. Miniature metallic versions of themselves bearing heavy weaponry stood opposite strange statuettes of demons, vile creatures and reptiles. The squirrel twitched his whiskers and followed Dànaidh with his eyes.

"Do I notice anything special about the stranger?" he asked the mouse.

"What's your perception?" the mouse asked, rolling an odd-shaped die with more than six sides.

The squirrel glanced at the parchment in front of him. "Fourteen," he answered.

The mouse pondered over the result of the die roll and the squirrel's response before stating: "You notice he's hefting a jar of blackroot and carrying his second tankard with him."

"Is he a threat?" the badger asked in a surprisingly high-pitched voice.

The mouse rolled the die again. "No," he said quickly.

Dànaidh snorted and fell into a chair at an unoccupied table. He pried the lid off the jar and removed a solitary twist of blackroot. He smacked his lips before biting into the gnarled root and nesting it at the side of his mouth.

_Fortuosity…_

Dànaidh's irises shrank to pin heads as the bitter juice ran through his veins. Grains of dust exploded into multi-colored mountains and twirls of candy clouds, while his horizon pitched and yawed like an angry ocean. It rose higher and higher in front of him, a flat two-dimensional tsunami of perception that teetered at its staggering, grotesque height and suddenly crashed down on top of him with the tremendous thunder of silence. Splashes of optical illusions dripped and bubbled across the stark blackness, and suddenly a familiar chorus, greasy and moist, with sharp tendrils scooping for his naked mind.

_'Sweetheart…we're home.'_

The yellowed clouds soaked his vision, and Dànaidh fell beyond The Edge and disappeared into The Haze. His body sat unmoving in the tavern, cracking a stupid grin and leaking black drool down the side of his chin. The sharp sound of something breaking tugged him back to his chair, and he jolted and banged his knees against the bottom of the table.

"Goodness!" came a cry behind him. Dànaidh turned and saw an attractive young weaselmaid in a flattering gown smiling at him.

"Hello," Dànaidh said, smiling as he rapidly rubbed the pain out of his throbbing legs.

The weaselmaid made a face. "Are you going to ask me to join you?" she said.

Dànaidh balked, leaping to his footpaws and banging his knees again. "Aye!" he winced, giving his best combination of a smile and a grimace.

The weaselmaid winked. "Are you sure?"

"Aye," Dànaidh repeated, stepping away from the table and pulling out the chair adjacent to his own. "Please."

"Thank you," she said, smiling. She sat down and Dànaidh pushed her into the table with one shove, knocking the wind out of her body.

"Oh!" Dànaidh chuckled, scooting her chair back as she wheezed and turned blue, her eyes bulging in her sockets. "Are ye okay?"

The weaselmaid shook her head, pounding on her chest bone as she gasped for air.

"Nae tae worry," Dànaidh said, laughing. "You'll be all right." He chewed on his blackroot and pointed to himself. "Mah name's Dànaidh."

The weaselmaid coughed and rasped, grabbed Dànaidh's glass and drank two-thirds in a single swallow. She lowered the glass and sighed in contentment, foam decorating the top of her lip.

"Cor!" Dànaidh chided, grabbing his glass back. He frowned at the miniscule amount of liquid swishing at the bottom of the glass.

"Thanks, cutie," the weaselmaid said with a smile, wiping her mouth with the back of a paw. "Put it on my tab."

"On yer…?" Dànaidh shook his head and smiled. "Yer bonny brave, ye know?"

The weaselmaid looked him up and down. "You don't look so tough," she said.

Dànaidh smirked. "I can be."

"Sure." She rolled her eyes. "So, you said your name was…?"

"Dànaidh." He offered a paw.

She took his paw and squeezed hard. "Pleased to meet you! I'm Willowtai—_'ellgates!"_

Dànaidh tugged her close, aiming his lips for her own. She ducked her head off to the side, allowing Dànaidh's intended kiss to dawdle unanswered. She grit her teeth and ground her paw into the side of his jaw. He saw the punch coming—The Haze told him to deflect, twist and snap—but this was different. She wasn't touching him to bestow some feminine wisdom, or make him feel 'appreciated'; she was attacking him, inviting combat! He heard his laugh echo through The Haze and allowed the weaselmaid's punch to land true. He scowled as it scored, allowing the momentum of the punch to carry his head toward the edge of the table. He was impressed with how hard she hit, and he tasted a fresh spat of blood from inside his cheek along with a fresh rush of blackroot juice as he bit down and swallowed a large piece of the twig. When she swung for a follow-up hit, he spun his own head about and caught her paw mid-throw.

_'Snap it,'_ The Haze jeered.

"There, noo," Dànaidh said, holding her fast while she spat and struggled like a pet tornado. "Ye'v git a strong swing."

"And you've got no manners!" she cried, biting at his nose. She growled quietly to herself and ceased her struggling, realizing she wouldn't be able to release herself. "I should've known…you males are all the same."

"What, roguishly handsome 'n' patient wi' mindless females 'n' thair nonsense?" He flashed a friendly smile and laughed as Willowtail erupted in a fresh bout of hissing, growling and cursing.

"Let me go!" she said at last, heaving a deep sigh. "You've had your fun…I'm not worth any extra effort."

"Pshaw!" Dànaidh scoffed, releasing Willowtail's paw. "I'm only pokin', lass. Dinna take it tae heart."

Willowtail rubbed at her wrist as she stared into Dànaidh's eyes. "At least you're being honest," she said.

Dànaidh nodded and looked over his shoulder, wondering what she saw in his Haze-encrusted reflection. He whistled through his teeth. "Ay! A refill over 'ere."

_CRACK!_ Something hard snapped in the tavern. Walkin grabbed a pitcher and strolled over to the table, refilling the glass and asking pages of questions of Willowtail with his eyes. Dànaidh chewed on the remaining stub of blackroot as Willowtail helped herself to another swallow from Dànaidh's drink.

"Hungry?" Dànaidh asked.

"Not yet," Willowtail said, brushing a stray strand out of her eyes. Her tail swished lazily through the back of the chair. She lowered her voice. "Lonely?"

Dànaidh drew the glass back to himself. Their eyes locked.

"Always," he said.

Willowtail rose slowly, bending one of her legs at the knee, revealing a long slit up the side of the gown's skirt.

"Tell me how much you have, and I'll tell you how long you have me." A stray paw traced the bare fur at her thigh.

_SNAP!_ Another thin crack echoed in the tavern.

Dànaidh's eyes darted left.

_Tack. Tack. Tack. Tack._

Dànaidh's eyes scanned to the right.

_CRISH!_

His jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed.

_Tack. Tack. Tack. Tack._

He rose slowly to his footpaws, staring at the other tavern patrons. Willowtail smiled at the hedgehog's ascension.

"Well, you _are_ handsome," she said, "even if you're a brute." She took his paw in hers.

_CRACK! SNAP!_

Dànaidh squeezed her paw and dared a brief smile to Willowtail before looking back into the heart of the tavern, his face losing every hint of friendliness. He dropped her paw and stepped around the table towards the bar.

"Stay 'ere," he warned. She nodded in confusion to his back.

As he approached the bar, Dànaidh noticed many of the patrons had grabbed stalks of celery, carrots and thin, cheaply-fried bread and were snapping them and knocking them against table tops and arm rests, cruel lines of anger and hatred wrapped around their faces as more joined their breaking chorus. Five young males of assorted species were approaching the bar, flexing their paws, unbuttoning their shirts or grabbing brooms and chairs. Dànaidh folded his arms on the bar and leaned forward on them, nodding to Walkin.

"Scum-bate!" one of the approachers called out. "I'm gonna hit you so hard, you'll forget how ugly you _really_ are. Me'n the boys here enjoy whoopin' on little guys like you, an' when you feel this here hit, you're—"

Dànaidh lashed out twice, striking the ferret between the eyes and slamming his forehead against the bar. He dropped the body and stared darkly at the four others surrounding him.

"If ye'r goan tae hit me, _hit me!"_ he said, beckoning them forward. "Dinna gab aboot it!"

"I thought you said he _wasn't_ a threat!" the young badger squealed to the mouse as their quartet ducked beneath a table.


End file.
